


Binding life and death together with coincidences

by ScriptaManent



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (kinda), Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Coincidences don't exist, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Ghibli Vibes, Hanamaki is a Witch With A Problem, M/M, Magical Realism, Matsukawa is a Shinigami, Mutual Pining, Quests, Witchcraft, references to pop culture, this may have some Buffy/Blue Exorcist vibes too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28383342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScriptaManent/pseuds/ScriptaManent
Summary: To the untrained eye, Matsukawa Issei is nothing but a random funeral home employee who makes sure his job is well done. At night, however, he is a shinigami whose mission is to help souls leave the body after a living being passed away. It's not the funniest job, but it's his true nature, and if you dare tell him that "dead men tell no tales" he'll sure laugh in your face.One night, when Matsukawa is going for a round near the cemetery, he catches a glimpse of magic coming from the nearby forest. There, in the middle of a fairy ring, stands a pink-haired witch, knees in the mud and blue shadows dancing on his face. As soon as Hanamaki notices Matsukawa's attention on him, he fails his spell and vanishes.Nonetheless, coincidences don't exist, and as the two of them keep bumping into each other, they realize that there might be some higher power bringing them together. Who knows? Perhaps Matsukawa could help Hanamaki with the issue he's been facing for the past few days…
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro & Konoha Akinori, Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Subplot:
Comments: 10
Kudos: 66
Collections: Haikyuu!! Urban Fantasy Bang





	1. Of death and life and eavesdropping trees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this fic for the Urban Fantasy Big Bang and it got a bit out of hand but this is probably my favourite story so far!  
> It'll feature art by [Tenticorn](https://twitter.com/Tenticorn). I'll link the art at the end of the corresponding chapters to avoid spoilers!  
> Find me on Twitter as well: [AngstWeaver](https://twitter.com/AngstWeaver/status/1345386905924493312?s=20)!

Issei wrapped his coat tighter around his chest, pressing the relative warmth of his scarf in the opening of his collar, but it didn’t keep his teeth from chattering in the dead of night. His breath held in the air in front of him every time he exhaled, reminiscent of a ghost, not quite there but visible to his eyes only, even if it was just for a fraction of second.

How ironic for a shinigami to compare his own breath to a soul released from a body, huh?

He let out a short laugh, and another cloud hung in the air before him. He walked through it, a smile still tugging at the corners of his lips in spite of the intense concentration in his eyes. He wasn’t simply taking a stroll around the cemetery for fun, he had a job to carry out, even if his was to be done in the middle of the night, where no unfortunate soul — he laughed again — could see him. He was out almost every night, no matter whether it rained cats and dogs or froze like the weather itself was trying to stop him in his mission.

Most of the time, he was only patrolling around pro forma, but on this cold autumn night, Issei followed the voice that only he could hear.

It was faint, a mere yelp, high-pitched and desperate, and his heart clenched at the sound. He had been doing this job for years, but he didn’t think he would ever get accustomed to it.

There was a forest boarding the cemetery, populated with centuries old trees whose branches had been witnesses to many things throughout their lives. They had watched couples going out on dates late in the night, their leaves cheering in the wind whenever one of them proposed; they had listened with respect to the last words murmured to a loved one who had passed away; they had welcomed crow chicks and baby foxes alike into the world; and they had followed Issei, whispering on his trail, as he answered the calls of trapped souls on his countless nights of work.

It was near the road that he found her, her fur bright orange and beautiful, highlighted by a line of white. She called louder, sensing him, and Issei kneeled beside her to strike her soft pelage.

“Hey, it’s okay, now. You’re alright,” he whispered, his voice low and soothing.

He brushed her cheek with his fingertip and the soul came out of the shell like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalid. It was a breathtaking moment, and as sad as death was, Issei couldn’t help but find it beautiful, in a way.

The fox’s soul hopped around, discorporated version of the one she used to be, and a smile stretched across Issei’s lips at the sight. He extended his fingers and the fox hesitantly sniffed it in a typical fight or flight response.

“You can go, now,” he told her, scratching her chin. “I’ll take care of your body, don’t worry. It’s kind of my official job, you know,” he added, cracking a smile at his own remark.

He carefully scooped the animal’s body in his gloved arms and brought her to a quieter part of the forest. Once he found a satisfying place, he put the body back on the ground and opened his bag — an old leather satchel that had known better days — to take out a small shovel.

The fox ghost stuck with him the whole time he dug a hole, studying him curiously.

“Eh, sorry, there aren’t any flowers for me to put on your grave,” he apologized.

The fox looked at him for a brief moment before she ran farther, yelping again. She was pointing at moss-covered rocks that had so far been spared by the cold morning frost. Issei placed them on top of the grave instead of flowers. It did the trick — life over death.

Suddenly, the animal twitched, her ears pointing toward something Issei couldn’t identify, and the fox vanished into thin air.

“Now what was tha—” he started, stopping mid-sentence when a bluish ray of light bathed the forest, blinding the shinigami.

Issei retreated behind a trunk, groaning, and the light faded to a mere glow coming from a clearing nearby. He stepped out of his hiding place, both upset and curious, and stopped in the shadow at the very border of the forest.

There was someone standing there, knees deep in the mud and blue shadows dancing on their face. A fairy ring spread around them in a circle as if they were part of it, made of mushrooms that Issei was fairly sure he had never seen before in this part of Japan. Strands of hair fluttered loose around the person’s face, caught in a wind that was nothing natural. Issei couldn’t tell the color for sure, but it looked purple in the bluish light.

He found himself unable to look away, his mind numb of any thoughts for the very first time.

The stranger furrowed their brows, their hand quickly securing the beanie that was about to fly off their head. They traced something in the mud with their bare index, focus written all over their face, but it was too far away and too dark for Issei to see the pattern.

The shinigami had no idea what the other person — a witch, perhaps, or a mage? — was doing, but he knew for sure that this particular type of magic was opposite to his own nature. It wasn’t dark, it wasn’t harmful, it wasn’t affiliated to death — and still it captured Issei’s attention like nothing he had ever seen. He could almost hear the magic pulse and sing, drawing him closer.

The blue light faded again, turning greener. Where the stranger’s hands were, it was almost pure white, blinding.

The intensity of the wind doubled. From where Issei stood, only a faint breeze caressed his cheeks, but the magician seemed to be fighting against the elements. A dark coat was floating behind them like a cape. It flapped in the wind like giant wings.

Issei shifted his weight and a twig cracked under his foot.

The stranger’s face snapped up. All the lights went out, as if someone had turned off a switch. For a short instant, Issei locked eyes with the witch.

The latter scowled briefly.

When Issei blinked again, the magician had vanished.

It took several seconds for Issei to recover from the strange encounter. The spell broken — in both the figurative and literal ways —, the shinigami stepped out of the shadows. He went straight to the middle of the clearing, where the other had stood, and his eyes brushed the untouched grass at his feet. Nothing remained of the witch or the fairy ring but white smoke that swirled in the air, carrying an odd scent of humus and lime to Issei’s nostrils.

He stayed there a moment, looking around, but of course the witch didn’t show up again.

Issei went back to the forest and headed to the cemetery. He had friends living there that he hoped would be able to tell him a bit more about what had happened and who this mysterious person had been.

* * *

Issei was only a kid when he had learnt that there were actually two types of souls roaming the Earth. The first kind, the most common one, was trapped souls. These, like the fox, were the ones he had to help get free of their corporeal appearance, the ones he had to help travel to the other side. This was where his job as a funeral home employee came in handy — whenever he met someone who hadn’t been able to properly leave, he could send them away. That was the main reason why he had picked this career, along with the fact it was probably one of the most secure ones in the world.

The other kind of souls was rarer in comparison, but two of them happened to wander in the cemetery Issei was familiar with. These were remnants, the ones the common folk referred to as ghosts. They were souls that had willingly decided to stay in the mortal realm. Some of them remained because they still had a mission to achieve or because they wanted to stick around a bit longer, either to make sure that someone was alright or to protect people they cared about — these were the ones that people considered guardian angels.

It wasn’t the reason why Issei’s remnant friends were still haunting the place, however. No, to be perfectly honest, these two didn’t have a particular reason except to bother each other for eternity, and lately, to bother their shinigami friend as well.

As soon as Issei stepped in the cemetery, a familiar voice greeted him, lilting and playful.

“Yahoo, Mattsun! You’re looking lively!” the first one called, perched on a tombstone that wasn’t his.

Near him, the other soul raised a concerned eyebrow at the shinigami. He propped himself away from the grave he had been leaning on and took a step toward Issei.

“Hey, are you okay? You look like—“

“Like you’ve seen a ghost,” the first one completed with a grin, jumping to the ground.

Issei blew a sigh from his nose but a smile tugged at his lips.

“Your jokes are getting old, Oikawa.”

“But I’m not,” the remnant countered proudly, his chin high, walking around the living one to study him more closely. “Iwa-chan and I will be twenty five for the rest of our deaths.”

Oikawa’s smile looked triumphant when he turned to Issei, but the ghost had failed to cover the bitterness of his voice.

He and Iwaizumi had always refused to tell Issei how they had perished, or even when. To be fair, he wasn’t sure whether they remembered it at all. Even the clothes they appeared in changed to match the fashion and era. All that the shinigami knew about them was what they had shared with him and what he had learnt from the years spent at their side. 

He had found out — by himself — that their bodies lay beside each other underground, in two separate graves. From what he had heard, people had refused to bury them together because according to historians they had been only best friends. Because historians couldn’t bear the thought of two men being in love.

It was obvious, though, among their bickering and banters, but only to a shinigami’s eyes — eyes that could see people who no longer were.

The truth was, Oikawa and Iwaizumi were the Achilles and Patroclus of the cemetery.

Issei suspected that this was the real reason why they were still around. They wanted to stay together, even after death, and they were probably too scared of what came after to risk being kept apart ever again.

Iwaizumi’s fingertips brushed the small of Oikawa’s back in a comforting gesture and for the umpteenth time, Issei wondered whether remaining souls could really touch each other. He genuinely hoped so. If they weren’t, they were probably so used to acting up that they had tricked themselves into feeling the contact.

Well, after all, Issei could feel energy radiating off souls he released, and remnants were probably even more tangible. There were chances these two could really interact.

“By the way,” the shinigami began, forcing his thoughts to take a lighter path when he remained silent for too long. “Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary tonight? Or someone passing by before I arrived?”

“Did someone catch your eye?” Oikawa smirked, narrowing his eyes to watch his friend’s expression.

Issei ignored him and turned to Iwaizumi, lifting an eyebrow, but the remnant only shook his head from left to right.

“You’re the first person we’ve seen in days. And what do you mean, ‘anything out of the ordinary’?”

“I think I saw a witch over there,” Issei shrugged, his gaze wandering back to the clearing in the forest.

In front of him, his friends exchanged a puzzled look.

“A witch?” Oikawa asked eventually, no trace of his usual playfulness in his voice.

Issei nodded. “Fairy ring, magic, blue light. No idea what they were doing over there.”

“But aren’t they supposed to be more discreet when they perform?” the ghost asked again.

Iwaizumi shrugged when his boyfriend looked at him expectantly.

“I guess so,” the shinigami confirmed dreamily. “They panicked when they spotted me.”

Oikawa was right, though, something hadn’t been right about that ritual. Ordinary people weren’t supposed to know about the existence of magic. The witch had been lucky that Issei had been the one to find them.


	2. Makki’s delivery service

A ray of light woke Takahiro up on the next day, blinding him as he tried to blink sleep away. He shoved the blankets aside and set foot on the floor with an unrestrained yawn. He didn’t need to glance at his alarm clock to know he had overslept again — the way the light hit the wall of his room told him it was already past two in the afternoon. His late night rituals were really starting to screw up his sleep pattern — and he had only managed to fix it two weeks ago.

Still, Takahiro didn’t have time to waste. He flicked an annoyed glance at the clothes he had worn on the previous night, negligently hanging from the back of a chair. His white jeans were covered in mud up to the middle of the thighs; his favorite hoodie, pastel pink and baby blue, sported several holes in the sleeves and he couldn’t explain the white stains on his coat — could magic stain fabrics? That was new. The only immaculate parts of his carefully picked outfit were the beanie he had almost lost there, the same backpack that had been following him since high school, and his loyal Doc Martens.

The witch let out an irritated sigh and rushed to the bathroom to pick glass pots from the shelves above the bathtub, ignoring the way the plant that took half of the room followed his movements.

“I’ll feed you later,” he grumbled before he closed the door.

He was pretty sure he heard the plant insult him.

“Curse you, Konoha,” Takahiro groaned under his breath as he headed back to his bedroom and his dirty laundry.

Oh, don’t be misguided, the plant was his housemate’s, not his. Konoha was the one who had bought the seed and raised the plant, but it was now in its teenage years, and his friend had grown out of his experimental herbology phase. Now, the plant was a spoiled kid that didn’t take no for an answer, and Takahiro was the one who had to deal with it. As if he didn’t have enough problems without having to take care of a rebellious teenager who could drown him in his bath.

He closed the door of his bedroom behind him again and put the glass pots down on his desk, pushing notebooks aside. A single leaf, orange and dry, fell to his feet and Takahiro’s heart clenched in his chest. He’d be out again at night. Hell, he’d put a spell on the whole planet if it meant he had a chance of success.

But first, he had to go through another day, and he had to find a job. At least on this matter, the cards were in his favor. He would have a new one before the end of the week.

Takahiro took the lid off the biggest jar with a sonorous pop and a strong scent of iode filled the room, almost dizzying. The witch dove his fingers in to grab an inch of white powder. It shone on his skin like glitters, sparkling with a fizzy noise, and he peppered it over his stained jeans. Then, he took another glass pot in his hand, this one longer and thinner. It was filled with a thick, nacre-like fluid that he meticulously poured over the powder.

As soon as it touched the fabric, the two substances reacted together. The powder foamed and fusioned with the fluid. It grew and spread over the mud, as if alive, until it formed a crust that covered the whole length.

Takahiro allowed himself a satisfied nod and left the pseudo-blob to dry away. Then, he turned to his hoodie, eyeing it with melancholy, and took a needle and thread out of a drawer with a sigh. There were things that magic couldn’t fix.

* * *

It was only three hours later that Takahiro found himself in front of his favorite store, draped in his sewn back hoodie, immaculate jeans, and stained coat that he had forgotten to clean. Well, to be honest, he liked it that way, the white spots looked like constellations from a distance.

At first glance, the place was just a very old convenience store, with wooden furniture and items stacked onto shelves. It was, to say the least, the very opposite of welcoming. There were spider webs hanging from every corner and the layer of dust that covered every surface was so thick that it took some real courage to brush it off in order to discover what lay beneath. Candlelight made the shadows dance behind the dirty windows, projecting eerie silhouettes in the street.

The Owl Nest was, in Takahiro’s very humble opinion, more a cuckoo’s nest than an owl’s. Or maybe the runners were the cuckoos, not the nest? Anyway, Takahiro had never really paid attention to the birds’ behavior. All that he could remember was that cuckoos lay eggs in other birds’ nests, and the chick was raised by the new parents like some kind of creepy parasitic kid that was most likely to kill its adoptive brothers and sisters. Something like that.

Alright, maybe the comparison wasn’t good, what did he know?

The truth was, the poor appearance of the shop was only an illusion casted by one of the owners in order to repel the common folk — non-magic humans. It was an impressive spell, especially considering that the one who had casted it and kept it in place was younger than Takahiro himself. The only few times when the veil had seemed to fail or weaken, it had turned out the customers had had diluted magic blood running through their veins.

Really, Akaashi was a powerful mage. Takahiro was far from his level, but he was very fine with his own abilities.

Where Akaashi could use powerful magic and trick humans with his illusions, Takahiro’s field of magic was totally different, for Akaashi was a mage and Takahiro considered himself a witch.

Not all the magic users themselves agreed on the definitions, but Takahiro didn’t need people to put a label on his life. He had picked one and he was perfectly happy with it. To him, the difference between mages and witches dwelled in the very nature of their magic.

Mages like Akaashi — and Konoha — were masters of illusions and spells. They were the ones who worked real magic and had an effect on the world. Witches like him were the light players of the sorcery world. They made potions, drew tarot cards and performed rituals using objects and formulas and old grimoires. 

Takahiro didn’t think his affinity with plants made him anything more of a mage. He was a witch, and he was a witch who needed a job, and so Takahiro crossed the door of the old shop.

As soon as he was in, the landscape switched completely and a soft smell of coffee replaced the acre scent of mould. Farewell, gloomy room and cobwebs and dusty furniture. Hello, bright candles and fireflies and leafy shelves. The store no longer looked like some kind of abandoned building. It was still an urban jungle, with plants sprouting from every piece of furniture, but somehow it was welcoming and organized.

On the nearest shelf, ivy vines curled around wooden boxes, protecting the gems it contained like a dragon guarding its treasure. Beside them, precariously balanced piles of books and trees dressed with crystals threatened to fall under the weight they bore. A row of surprisingly ordinary stationary completed the front part of the shop.

Finally, on the far opposite wall, behind the counter, old lockers had been repurposed to present roots, leaves and seeds. Takahiro knew that the rarest artefacts weren’t displayed for everybody to see — after all, he was enough of a regular to have bought some pretty nice stuff from this shop.

The bell rang when Takahiro closed the door behind him, sounding like a raven chick begging for food. Behind the counter, Akaashi lifted his gaze from the book he had been annotating, looking at the newcomer from above his glasses.

“Oh, Hanamaki-san,” he greeted the other, marking his page with a dead leaf before he closed the volume. “Can I help you with anything?”

The pink-haired witch shook his head with a grimace and joined the other in a few long strides. He dropped his bag near the runner’s arm and nonchalantly rested his elbow on the counter.

“Hi, Akaashi. Is Bokuto around?” Hanamaki asked, looking at the empty shop.

Cardboard boxes were piled in a corner, contrasting with the tidy rows of plant-covered shelves that took up most of the room. The place was usually kept in shape by Akaashi, and so Hanamaki eyed him again as he went on with his request.

“I wanted to know if he had a job for me, actually. I’m short on money this month — again, I know, don’t look at me like that — and I haven’t found anything yet.”

In front of him, the other stirred on his stool, a frown slowly creasing his forehead.

“Actually, Bokuto-san is away today,” Akaashi admitted, moving a huge fern that was leaning toward Hanamaki away from his face. The plant retracted its leaves sulkily when the mage slid it to the other side of the counter. “But he forgot to take the packages we were supposed to deliver urgently. Do you think you could take care of this? There should be a bike somewhere in the backroom.”

Lifting an eyebrow, the witch cracked a smile.

“Sure thing. By the way, can you put some things aside for me? I need to buy a quartz crystal, dry lavender, a round moonstone for Aki, and fresh ginger. Oh and plant fertilizer. Soappy’s being a brat these days,” he added, remembering the plant in his bathroom.

As he listed the items, Akaashi opened drawer after drawer, carefully packing everything in a paper bag that he placed beside Takahiro’s backpack. He brushed the side of the package with his fingertips and the silhouette of an eagle owl printed on the paper, marking it with the store’s trademark.

“Here you are,” the seller said with a smile.

“Thanks, Akaashi. Take it off my wage,” the witch declared as he waved back, heading to the hidden door that led to the backroom.

Takahiro knew the shop like the back of his hand. After all, he was both a loyal customer and a regular employee of the Owl Nest, and Konoha had trained under Akaashi for years before becoming an independent mage.

He took another look at the amount of packages waiting for him to bring them to their rightful owners and cursed under his breath. There were more hidden behind the first row, another illusion trick from Akaashi Keiji in a desperate attempt at keeping the shop clean and organised.

Without waiting for more packages to add themselves to the pile, Takahiro grabbed the rusty bike from the backroom. It creaked like it was about to fall into pieces with every rotation of the wheel, and the witch let out a short laugh when he spotted the black cat engraved on the red frame. Another lost item that the shop had claimed.

Takahiro approached the nearest pile and started securing packages on the back of his bike, praying for them to stay put until he was done for the day. Sometimes he wished he had more practical powers, or a bag that was bigger on the inside.

The bell rang once more as Takahiro pushed on the pedal.

* * *

_ Makki’s delivery service _ , patented, turned out to be a rather successful and surprisingly easy way for the witch to earn money. He bragged to everybody that he could deliver about anything, and indeed the packages stacked on his bike ranged from letters to electronics. He even had a special bag dedicated to food and drinks, but they spilled everywhere on the inside most of the time — he should really ask Konoha for a self-absorbing spell, he was pretty sure that his best friend had one somewhere among his experiment notes.

Takahiro was on his way to a famous coffee shop of the town when dark brown eyes caught his attention on the side of the pavement.

The man’s curly hair fell over his face and in his eyes and his coat was soaked wet from the sudden rain that had poured unannounced only a few minutes ago, but Takahiro immediately recognized him to be the guy from the cemetery.

A shiver ran down his spine as he was reminded of the dread that had washed over him when he had noticed that he was being spied on. In their supernatural world, one of the most important rules was that the common folk wasn’t aware of the existence of magic, and it was better and safer for everybody if it was kept a secret. When Takahiro had seen that dark silhouette hiding among the trees, he had had the fright of his life, but his instinct had told him that the stranger wasn’t a threat to him. Well, his instinct and the trees screaming into his ears — these old geezers never shut up, to the point Takahiro had had a hard time focusing on his ritual.

The witch didn’t know what kind of creature that man was, but he was certain he wasn’t of the human world.

Their gazes met for a fraction of second only. The dark haired man lifted his eyebrows in surprise for the briefest instant, and Takahiro’s bike propelled him away without a pause.

It was common knowledge that in the magical world coincidences didn’t exist. This was the second time that the two men had met, and an alarm rang in the back of Takahiro’s mind. Somehow, he was convinced that fate had something up its sleeve for both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tenti's art for this chapter!](https://twitter.com/Tenticorn/status/1345488933153476608?s=20)


	3. A message from fate written in pineapple slices

Darkness was spreading across the sky like a heavy blanket that Issei could almost feel upon his shoulders. He stiffened a yawn, his eyes on the door of the funeral home where he worked at day. His shift wouldn’t end before two long hours, and Issei was expecting a client to come in any minute to bid their last goodbyes to a loved one.

It was a bit ironic, he had to admit, for someone as empathetic as he was to work in a place where people wept more than they smiled, but Issei treated his job like a formality, like a movie he was watching and had no control over. He had heard stories of surgeons getting in a butcher’s mindset before operations, seeing their patient as a block of meat in order not to freak out and let their nerves get the better of them, and he figured he worked the same.

People came in, he led them to their lost ones and watched as they broke down in front of him, barely aware of his presence. Sometimes, he allowed himself to give comforting words to a widow or to give support to a brother.

It was harder for Issei to keep his own emotions in check when the deceased ones were screaming for help; it was even more difficult when they were quietly accepting their fate and bid their own farewells to their visitors. The worst was when they had died before their time — in these cases, Issei quickly wiped a tear from the corner of his eyes before anyone could spot it. He usually spent the night talking with the soul when it happened, just like he did when he visited his two friends in the cemetery.

Issei didn’t have any living friends, but he had met dead people he would never forget. He was only in his mid-twenties, but he had lived thousands of lives and thousands of years through the memories dead people shared with him. He didn’t have his own family yet, but he had been there for more children than he would have liked to.

Dead people were surprisingly lively when they chatted with him before they left for the other side, and more often than not, their smiles were the warmest he had ever received.

Sometimes, he saw himself as a walking paradox: so close to death and yet finding so much life in it.

The bell rang when a man entered, his eyes puffy and red, and Issei straightened up to welcome him with a solemn expression. He glanced at the rows of cars he could see in the parking lot in front of the funeral home, some car doors staying resolutely closed as the passengers fought to find the strength to walk to him.

A whisper rose in the back of his head, calling his name, and Issei knew that his shift wouldn’t end before late in the night one more time, but it was the least he could do to ease the dead ones’ pain.

* * *

It was nearly one in the morning when Issei turned on the TV in his flat, and he rested his head against the back of his couch with an exhausted sigh. He wasn’t going out to patrol that night, not when he was in such a state of mind.

His last patient had been a woman barely older than him. She had been an art student, radiant and cheerful, one of these people whose life looked perfect at first glance, but it had all been a façade she displayed at will. Whenever she came home, she cried herself to sleep, torn between that best friend who loved her and that woman she loved, stressed out by her low income, pressured by the expectations people had for her and that she couldn’t meet. It had been too much for her, and she had left with relief and only a bit of regret, at peace with her short life.

Issei had listened to her until she was ready, and he had waited for her to leave for good before he had allowed himself to break.

She had looked at death with such a blissful expression that it had been painful for the shinigami. He didn’t have the strength in him to go out again that night, because he knew for sure that he would find more wistful souls — genuinely good people who had passed away, humans and supernatural beings and faithful dogs alike.

Issei would take a day off his gloomy duties, just this once. He wasn’t the only shinigami around anyway, there would always be someone to replace him when he was feeling off, and he was too out of his mind to get anything done properly after such a meeting.

He stayed like that for a long moment, his eyes shut and the TV displaying a low background noise, until his breathing calmed and he could think more clearly again. His mind traced back to the cemetery and to that witch he had seen there, one rare encounter with someone alive, and he found himself wishing they could have talked a bit.

The shinigami didn’t remember the last time he had talked about something that wasn’t death, or the last time he had really talked with someone who was alive. Colleagues didn’t count, he didn’t even know their full names.

It was lonely, being related to death, especially when you could only see your two best friends at night and they were bound to a cemetery. No movie nights, no nights out in a pub, just the three of them, tombstones, and the night sky above their heads, always.

The clock ticked on the wall and an ad flashed on TV, tempting him with a pizza delivered 24/7 in the whole town. His stomach growled loudly and Issei grimaced as he pushed the volume of the TV louder. He doubted the pizza could be fresh, considering they delivered at any time of the day or night, but he couldn’t care less. He needed something fat and unhealthy inside of him right now.

Issei took his phone out of his pocket and ordered an extra-large Hawaiian, because if he was going to eat a pizza at nearly two in the morning on a shitty night, he had to make it the biggest insult to Italy as well.

* * *

The bell rang only twenty minutes later, confirming Issei’s doubts that the pizza would be a cheap thawed one, and he flicked a glare at the door. Well, a shitty day had to be a shitty day until the end, right? It wasn’t like he could expect anything better of it.

This in mind, he let out a groan and sank further into his couch, determined not to make any effort.

“It’s open!” he shouted, not even moving when he heard the door creak and footsteps coming closer.

“For fuck’s sake, can’t you switch on the light?!” the pizza boy grunted in a low voice when he nearly tripped over one of Issei’s boots. “Delivering pizzas to creeps in the middle of the night isn’t a job I do because I like it, you know. You better tip me well, especially since you have such shitty tastes. Seriously, pineapple on pizza?” the man rambled as he fumbled closer.

He was in the middle of the room when all the lights went on, blinding Issei.

Was he going crazy? He was pretty sure there weren’t any light switches there.

“How can someone be so chatty at two in the morning?” Issei sighed with a frown as he sat up on his sofa.

He threw an arm over the backrest and crooked his neck to have a look at the deliverer. As soon as their gazes met, all the air left his lungs and Issei was left staring at the guy. In front of him, wearing the same worn out hoodie as he had nights ago, a pink-haired man was frozen mid-move, a cold and probably disgusting pizza in his hands.

Issei could almost hear the mocking voice of fate whispering in his ears, something along the line of ‘Surprise, bitch! The pizza boy is the witch again!’

He burst out laughing and the other relaxed ostensibly at the sound, his expression switching to an amused grin.

“Well, you know what they say. Twice is a coincidence, thrice is fate,” the deliverer declared in a lilting voice, as if reciting a prophecy.

He threw the pizza on the coffee table in front of Issei without more consideration. The box made an ominous sound as it hit the surface, as if the thing it contained was a block of wood.

Issei’s grin widened, lazy and almost seductive, and he rested his chin on his palm to watch his guest.

“Eh, I guess I have to believe in fate,” he agreed, his voice low and drawling. “I’m what comes at the end of the line.”

“Shinigami?” the other guessed, not bothering to hide the fact he was totally checking Issei out.

The dark-haired one nodded.

“Witch?”

“Yep.” The deliverer flicked a frown at the pizza before he continued. “Are you really gonna eat that?” he asked, lifting a doubtful eyebrow and pointing at the box like it was going to stab him.

Issei followed his movement and casted a distrustful glance on the food, the corners of his mouth curving downward.

“Probably not. I don’t want to find out what happens when a guy like me dies of food poisoning…”

He eyed the other again, falling into a thoughtful silence once more. The witch was right about one thing: it was the third time they crossed paths in less than a week, and three times was clearly beyond the domain of coincidences, especially in their reality.

They locked eyes again and Issei noticed the golden and green spots dancing in the other’s irises, like the sun shining through foliage in early spring. There was even moss growing on the side of his belt, but the witch was probably not aware of it.

He didn’t make a move toward the door, standing still, relaxed, and Issei found his interior brighter than usual with such a presence by his side. Once again, he couldn’t take his mind off the idea that that man was his complete opposite. Life and Death reunited in a room.

“I’m Matsukawa Issei, by the way,” he eventually said, tossing a cushion on the nearby armchair in a silent invitation.

“Hanamaki Takahiro, your friendly neighborhood witch” the other introduced himself with a grin. “I can make potions and read your future, and I can probably poison someone accidentally. Mind if I stay a bit longer?”

Issei found himself smiling back.

“I suppose we can’t help it. If we keep bumping into each other like that, you’ll end up popping out of a coffin in my shop at some point. But aren’t you gonna be in trouble with your job?” he added in a more serious tone.

Hanamaki dropped onto the armchair in front of him as if they were old friends used to spending time together, and the sight made something grow warmer in the pit of Issei’s stomach.

“Nah, they were gonna fire me anyway,” the witch shrugged dismissively, looking around to take a better look at Issei’s flat. “The cards told so... Or maybe this is why they're gonna fire me. Who cares?"

He leant forward and snatched a slice of pizza from the box he had brought, wincing when the crust stood horizontally in his hand. He carefully placed it back and closed the box again under Issei’s mocking gaze, pushing it out of sight. At the same time, the shinigami stood up and grabbed a kettle from the kitchen.

“Throw this away,” he told his guest, gesturing at the pizza. “I should have some cups of instant ramen somewhere around here, I’m gonna make us some. It’s probably safer than your pizza.”

Hanamaki let out a laugh that sounded like wind playing in wooden chimes.

“Good idea. That’s what you get for putting pineapple on that thing.”

Time flew as the two of them chatted, exchanging about the universes they evolved in, so close and yet so different. Eventually, Issei asked the other what kind of ritual he had been performing on the night they first met — it felt like it had happened years ago. He couldn’t stop thinking about his first impression, that Hanamaki’s ritual had been a celebration of life, but the truth was actually darker than Issei had thought.

“I’ve been trying to find my familiar for days now,” the pink-haired one explained in a low breath. There was a slump in his shoulders that gave Issei the urge to nudge him and assure him everything was going to be alright. “One day I woke up and she was nowhere to be found. She’s just a baby, she can’t do anything by herself!” Hanamaki continued, his voice breaking in the middle of the sentence.

He stifled a sob, biting the inside of his bottom lip to the point Issei smelt the metallic ting of blood in the air — another perk of being an agent of death. Hanamaki’s eyebrows furrowed deeper as he inhaled shakily.

Issei bent forward, leaning closer to the other, his eyes locked on the witch’s face with an intensity he had rarely felt.

“What is she like?”

The witch’s gaze lifted to Issei’s, watery and lost, as if he was only remembering his presence. Emotions followed each other in Hanamaki’s eyes, undecipherable, and Issei’s stomach twisted in anticipation as he waited for the other to decide what he wanted to share with a stranger.

“Do you know Greenmen?” Hanamaki eventually asked, gulping nervously when the shinigami shook his head. “They’re familiars grown from special seeds — I’m mostly a plant witch, to put it simply. There aren’t two greenmen that look alike, and they can grow any plant out of their bodies for their guardian to use. Mine looks like a flat tortoise, around this size,” he said, cupping his hands as if holding a newborn chick. “She’s green, duh, and she’s covered in moss, and her shell is kinda shaped like ginkgo leaves, and I don’t even know if she gets enough light or if she’s still alive—“

He jumped when Issei’s hand squeezed his shoulder, and for a second, Hanamaki looked like he was searching for an answer to a question Issei couldn’t hear in the shinigami’s eyes. He clenched his jaw and looked away, leaning back against the armchair as if to regain some composure. It put more space between the two men and only then did Issei realize how close he had been drawn to the other.

He straightened up, shaking his unease off, and locked eyes with the witch again, a serious expression upon his face.

“I’m a shinigami, I’d know if I had helped a plant tortoise cross to the other side, don’t you think? I’m sure she’s okay.”

The other nodded slowly but the wrinkles on his forehead remained, as if engraved in his skin.

“You’re probably right,” he admitted, and it seemed to Issei that in spite of his devouring worry, a weight had been lifted from the witch’s shoulders. “But she’s so carefree and naïve… If anything happens to her—“

“Let me help you find her, then.”

Hanamaki froze at the solemn tone of Issei’s voice, and his brows twitched again when he stared at the shinigami.

“I’ll be patrolling around anyway, I might as well look for your familiar. Besides, I’ve got friends in the cemetery who may have seen something, and I can always ask the other spirits if they’ve met a leaf tortoise. Speaking with dead people is a great way to have a vast network,” he assured with a slight smirk that he wished looked reassuring.

“Wait, you can speak to dead people?”

Issei lifted an amused eyebrow. “You grew a magical creature out of a seed and that’s what you find surprising? By the way, you haven’t told me her name.”

The blush that crept up Hanamaki’s face at the question was unexpected, but the witch kept a defiant look on his companion.

“Creampuff,” he announced, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down on the other.

There was a short silence, followed by the sound of Issei’s laugh. In the flat beneath them, a neighbor hit the ceiling to shut them up.

“Alright,” Issei eventually declared, grinning at the witch who was waiting for him to calm down with a deadpan expression. Issei was pretty sure the other was suppressing a smile. “Hanamaki, let’s meet at the next full moon. It’ll be bright so we can look around without tripping over roots.”

The other stared at him a little longer before he nodded.

“Next full moon, okay. It’s next week. I’ll leave you my number. Call me if you hear about anything.”

He jumped to his feet, quickly scribbled his phone number on a piece of pizza box, and walked to the exit under the shinigami’s silent stare.

Hanamaki marked a pause in front of the door, his hand hanging in the air above the doorknob. He didn’t turn back to speak.

“Actually, just text me to tell me how it goes. Even if you don’t find anything,” he added.

On these words, the witch left the flat, and all the lights turned off when he closed the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering what Creampuff looks like, she was inspired by [this art by Nadia Kim](https://www.inprnt.com/gallery/nkim/plant-turtle/) (but as a tortoise) and Blue Exorcist's Greenmen!


	4. The essence of mischief

A clear silvery light, far from the dirty glow Takahiro’s eyes were accustomed to, poured into the narrow corridor when he opened the door. It highlighted the dusty rug, making stains Takahiro had never seen before obvious to his eyes, and he quickly stepped into his flat to forget about that old building he rented at a way too expensive price for what it was.

The warm atmosphere of a wooden chalet enveloped him like the water of a hot bath and he let his body relax and enjoy the sound of the fire cracking into the chimney.

To human eyes, Takahiro and Konoha shared a lousy flat in a miserable-looking concrete residence in the heart of Sendai. They had the luxury of a tiny balcony that could fit an old chair and a broken table, but that was pretty much all there was to say about their living place.

Reality was much more interesting, though. First of all, their flat was bigger on the inside, as Konoha liked to brag to whoever was willing to listen to him for longer than two seconds. The door opened on a house of the kind one would expect to find lost in the middle of a forest, spacious and made of wood and so warm and welcoming that it was actually shady. Moreover, even though they lived on the second floor of the city building, there was a back door that led to a garden in the middle of a clearing, and from their windows they could see pine-covered mountains breaking the line of horizon.

Konoha and Takahiro’s flat was as real as one could be, the only thing that was out of the ordinary was its plane of existence. It was at the frontier between two worlds, existing both in the concrete building in Sendai and in the middle of a mystical forest. That was an exceptionally powerful spell, one that even Akaashi had recognized he would never manage, and thus it was one of Konoha’s proudest achievements.

An owl crossed the night sky, letting out a faint scream before it landed on the windowsill. The lights of the flames reflected in his pleading orange eyes, making the white mask on its face shine brighter, and a soft smile spread on Takahiro’s lips when he opened the window to let the animal in.

The bird perched on his shoulder, preening the witch’s hair affectionately, then he left to join his nest — which was really only a bunch of sticks thrown together in the hood of what had used to be one of Takahiro’s favorite hoodies.

Pen, short for Pendragon, was a white-faced Scops the size of a hand, so curious and playful in spite of his already respectable age. He was Konoha’s first familiar, but he could easily have been mistaken for a regular owl, if not for his ability to ignite things at will. Pendragon could spit fire and lately it happened a lot when he was happy. Thus, there was always a bucket of water ready somewhere in the entrance, in case of emergency.

Takahiro put out a spark on his shoulder with the experience of someone who’s been had too many times and dropped his backpack near the table of the main room. His mind empty of any thoughts, he headed to the big, fluffy sofa that took most of the space and flopped down onto it with a long sigh.

After two minutes of silence, he opened his eyes again to stare at Konoha. His back to him, his best friend was leaning over a massive oaken desk. Rows of vials and jars spread before him, some smoking, some glowing eerily. The flickering flame of a candle danced in the air beside the mage, moving as he wished it to. Purple sparkles flew around, deposing ashes on the mage’s cheek, and Takahiro waited in silence for the other man to speak first — he had had more than his dose of Konoha’s experiments backfiring, literally, if he happened to ruin his concentration.

The mage’s hands flew above the vials, sometimes hesitating between two, opening drawers and flicking lianas out of his face whenever they were drawn too close because of Takahiro’s presence behind him.

Eventually, Konoha leant back with an exclamation of satisfaction. He turned around to show the other what he had been working on, a smug and ominous smirk across his face.

“The neighbors keep being noisy at night, I can’t sleep,” he justified himself with an amused shrug. “I’ll put some of this on their door. Trust me, a moon will pass before they start having fun again so late.”

In the jar, the mixture bubbled and foamed. It was the color of charcoal and it smelt like rotten grapes. This one looked particularly unstable, and Takahiro straightened up when it started getting fizzier, as if something was trapped inside of it and trying to escape.

“It looked exactly like this the last time you tried necromancy,” the witch declared in a voice that was higher than usual.

Konoha frowned and flicked an insisting look at his potion.

“Did it? Nah, I’m sure this one’s for too enthusiastic newly-weds. Anyway, we’ll find out soon,” he added with another shrug, putting back the potion on the desk.

Truly, Takahiro was glad that Konoha was his friend and not his enemy. The guy was a jack-of-all-trades who experimented with every field of magic he heard of, even the ones Takahiro would never ever try to approach — especially these ones, actually. More often than not, it ended up in a monumental failure, but it didn’t stop Konoha from trying again.

However, his polyvalence and perseverance didn’t mean that the mage didn’t have an area of expertise. Regardless of whether magic was a spectrum or a wheel, Konoha was at the opposite from his best friend.

Where the source of Takahiro’s magic was nature, plants and energy, Konoha’s powers revolved around illusions and tricks and night. It was darker than most, more powerful and more dangerous, but most of the time Konoha only used it to have some fun and prank other people. He may thrive in chaos, he was still a pretty nice guy in the end.

He wore mischief in his eyes the way he wore his heart on his sleeve, and that plotting expression of his fell into a concerned frown when he saw the weary despair that swirled in his friend’s eyes.

“I tried looking for her,” Konoha said in a blank voice, vaguely gesturing at a map of the region spread on the floor near the desk.

Circles of black melted wax marked the old paper, and a sharp crystal had pierced a hole through the thin map. As hard as they kept trying, using every type of magic they could think of and even going out of their ways to do so, they never got anything useful out of their rituals. Locating a lost item or person was supposed to be a basic exercise, but for some reason Creampuff remained untraceable.

“I tried using normal spells. It failed again, so I tried summoning helpers—“ Konoha continued, and the air chilled in the room when Takahiro sent him an anxious frown. He quickly scanned the shadows, half-expecting to find a demon lurking there. “—but nothing worked. It’s like there’s something interfering with my magic and I can’t figure out what blocks my spells,” he sighed, kicking the map with the tip of his foot.

A demon-like scream, eardrum-piercing and loud, resonated in the house and Konoha extended his arm without a second thought for his other familiar to land on. A shadow, the color of the night during a new moon, flashed before Takahiro’s eyes when a bird crossed the room.

The bluish barn owl closed her claws around her mage’s forearm, squeezing repeatedly as she settled more comfortably. She would have dug scars in his skin if not for the thick piece of leather that covered Konoha’s arm.

The mage absentmindedly brushed Banshee’s feathers and white spots lit up under his touch, like stars blinking away in the sky. Takahiro ignored the way his heart clenched at the strength of the bond between the mage and his familiar.

He also ignored the way Banshee stared at him like she was considering the best way to pluck his eyes out of their sockets in his sleep. Her black eyes seemed to never blink whenever she locked them on someone.

She was a petty owl, one of the least to be trusted familiars Takahiro had ever met, and she was only loyal to Konoha. She only tolerated the other inhabitants of their house because her mage had forbidden her of hurting them.

“Anything new on your side?” Konoha asked after a moment, kicking his friend’s shin to get him to speak.

Takahiro jumped at the harsh dive back into reality. That made it another night out for Creampuff and the weather was getting colder by the day, but he was trying everything he could and letting his anguish devour him wouldn’t bring the familiar home faster.

Takahiro exhaled from his nose and tilted his head to one side, the image of a dark-haired silhouette flashing before his eyes when he blinked.

Something grew warmer inside of him but he chose to ignore the tugging sensation in the pit of his stomach. 

“You mean aside from that shinigami I keep bumping into? No. Oh and I probably lost another job.”

He shrugged in an exaggerated way and slowly let his gaze settle on Konoha. He had been expecting it, but he still winced when the other smirked ominously.

“Shinigami, huh?”

Takahiro rolled his eyes. The corners of his lips twitched upwards, betraying him, and Konoha’s smirk only widened at the sight.

“What’s he like? Cute, I believe, but I’ll need more details, Hiro. Do you want me to make you a love potion? You know I can do that,” he continued, his grin fierce and sharp.

Takahiro bit back the burning need to point out that his own love potions had been the only ones working so far.

“Ginger, oyster and chocolate isn’t something I’d call a  _ love  _ potion,” he countered instead, raising his eyebrows and trying hard to suppress his smile. “It’s the blue pill of magic.”

“Semantics,” Konoha shrugged, making it sound like an insult. “Still, ask Bokuto how much money he makes out of it every month, we’ll see if you still complain.”

The other had a point. Konoha had never made so much money than since he had come up with his miraculous recipe. A part of Takahiro’s mind wondered if the couple next door had somehow gotten their hand on it. That would have explained a lot of things.

“I still think you should add lemon to it,” the witch continued seriously.

The dark mage frowned, taking a few seconds to consider the idea.

“It’d probably lose its efficiency.”

“It’d taste better and you’d make more of it for a cheaper price.”

Konoha’s eyes narrowed to slits and a scheming grin slowly spread on his lips.

“I love how you think,” he eventually declared, turning around to write something on a loose sheet of paper.

On his arm, Banshee grunted with resent at the sudden movement. She climbed down her mage, glaring daggers, and squeezed herself in the space between two thick books at his side.

“But, Hiro, don’t think our conversation about that death-guy is over,” Konoha continued without looking back. “You owe me more information.”

The playful smile in his voice was enough for Takahiro to jump to his feet.

“Like hell I do.”

The warmth grew again inside of him, and Takahiro threw himself under a cold shower to clear his head from the thoughts that were starting to take roots in his mind.


	5. Black cats for good luck

Takahiro was jolted awake by the sound of glass breaking on the floor not far from him. He opened his eyes just in time to see a patch of grey feathers fly away and let himself drop back onto his mattress with a sigh.

Pen had stolen something from him again. There were times he wondered why the little owl liked his stuff so much, but so early in the morning, it only made Takahiro miss his own familiar.

A chilly breeze brushed his arm that was out of the blankets and the witch resisted the urge to pull them back over his head and fall back to sleep. Instead, he dragged himself out of his bed, and after a quick glance at the frost lining his window, he put on the warmest clothes still lying around.

The house smelt like waffles when Takahiro emigrated to the living-room, and he found Konoha half asleep on the table, eye bags darker than Banshee’s plumage marking his features.

“Why ‘re you up s’ early?” the mage said with difficulty, chewing an undercooked waffle and looking like he was about to fall into a coma.

“I’m going back to the Owl Nest to see if Bokuto has anything we haven’t tried yet,” the other replied carefully.

His hand hovered above the doorknob and he turned around to take a better look at the scene. Takahiro was pretty sure that the candles were smaller than they had been when he had gone to bed, and there were traces of ashes on the ceiling that he was fairly certain hadn’t been there before. The plants that grew everywhere in their house had retreated to the farthest corners, as if scared of something. Finally, Takahiro spotted the huge grimoires half hidden under the desk, some of them still open. Night mages didn’t need as much sleep as other beings, but Konoha had probably stayed up all night to try and find Creampuff.

Takahiro let his bag slide off his shoulder with a sigh.

“Alright I’m fixing you up for today but you better repay me later,” the witch gave in, heading to his own cupboards to make an energy drink for his friend.

He took everything out, frowning when he discovered he was out of honey and milk, and looked around for the tea trees sprouting between the planks of the kitchen wall.

“Tell me more about that shinigami,” Konoha begged him.

Takahiro stopped in the middle of his potion making session to stare at him blankly.

“Be careful, my hand might slip and I may put you to sleep for the next three days,” he warned.

Konoha frowned and pushed a nearly raw waffle toward his friend as an apology. He looked so miserable and hungover that Takahiro didn’t even bother to hide his snigger.

Eventually, the witch made an infusion out of young tea leaves. He added grinded ginseng roots and poured carefully weighted powders into the beverage, each of them changing its color, ranging from apple green to a lagoon blue to a vivid shade of red. The last one made the potion fizzy, and he sprinkled orange zest above it all before he slammed the glass in front of his friend.

“Bottom-up,” he ordered, snatching the plate of poor-looking waffles from the other’s grip. “I’m taking care of this as well, and then you go with me to the shop. Akaashi might be able to teach you something useful.”

Konoha obeyed without a word, but his eyes were still pressuring his friend with questions he didn’t want to hear.

One hour later, the mage was in better condition than he had been in weeks, and the two friends made their way to the magic shop.

Alas, all their hopes were crushed when Bokuto’s expression fell into sorrow.

“This is all I have left,” he told them, holding a crystal in the palm of his hand.

It was the size of a pen cap and embedded into a thin chain like a delicate necklace. The stone reflected light like water, casting intricate patterns on the mage’s skin.

“If you want to use it, you’ll have to wait until the full moon is at its peak,” the silver-haired one instructed, his golden eyes never leaving the object as if it held a precious meaning to him. “It’s a very rare item.”

Beside him, Akaashi was staring at him, his face pained, and Takahiro closed Bokuto’s fingers back around the crystal without a second thought.

“Listen, you two,” he started, looking alternately at the shop owners. “I don’t know what this means, but if it’s dear to you, I don’t want it.”

“It’s probably not gonna work if it’s not something related to Hiro, anyway,” Konoha agreed beside his friend.

The latter flicked a quick glance at his housemate, only to find disapproval painting his traits. It was faint, only visible in the way his brows furrowed, but Konoha seemed to have the same feeling about the crystal. It meant a lot to Bokuto and Akaashi, and whatever it was, Takahiro would never allow them to sacrifice anything to help him. He would find another way, one that wouldn’t require people giving away something precious to them.

“If you don’t want to use this,” Akaashi said with difficulty, only taking his eyes off Bokuto when the other had safely put the crystal back into a drawer. “I know someone who could probably help you, but I have to warn you he’s hard to approach. He doesn’t like wasting his time on people…”

Takahiro frowned, his lips pressing into a thin line. It sounded like a time-wasting quest, and he was starting to think that Matsukawa may be the most promising option to find Creampuff, but Konoha intervened before he could decline.

“Is there a way to get him to talk to us, even for a bit?” the mage asked his mentor.

Akaashi frowned with an unsure expression.

“You could try offering something in exchange for his help, but I’m not even sure it’ll be enough for him to be interested in you.”

“Akaashi, I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Bokuto whined beside him when the other grabbed a pen.

The illusion mage pushed the paper toward Takahiro. In a curvy, refined handwriting, a name and an address glimmered in silvery ink.

Kozume Kenma.

The most powerful mage of their generation. Also the less sociable one.

* * *

It was only on the next day that Konoha and Takahiro paid a visit to the man that Akaashi had recommended to them. They hadn’t found anything they owned that could be worth his attention, and so Takahiro had decided he would just go there and ask nicely. After all, he had nothing to lose, as he had told his friend. Nothing, except time, but he refused to think about it and the consequences of every minute that passed without Creampuff by his side.

It took nearly half a day for them to travel to Tokyo, and it would have taken them even longer to find the isolated house if not for Konoha’s ability to detect illusions.

They followed his instinct to the periphery of Tokyo’s suburbs, a remote area where empty houses prevailed, and stopped in front of an old building circled by a metal mesh. Takahiro half expected to find a “ _ Keep Out _ ” sign in front of it. 

The illusion that covered the mage’s house was even more flawless than the one hiding the two men’s shared house from prying eyes, and from the disgusted twitch of his mouth, it was clear that the perfection he had in front of him was pissing Konoha off.

Without a word, the two friends stepped forward and into the property. A curtain moved behind a window, like a scene out of a horror movie, and Konoha and Takahiro exchanged a look full of apprehension.

Takahiro approached first to knock on the door, but it flew open before his hand even touched the wood, revealing a grumpy-looking man one head shorter than the witch.

“What do you want?” the mage grumbled, glaring up at the strangers trespassing on his property.

His long hair was kept in a messy ponytail, save for loose strands that framed his face. He was dressed in dark shades from head to toe. Only the tip of his hair, dyed blond on a few centimeters, and his amber eyes brought some color to him. Yet, his gaze glinted cold like the blade of a knife in a gloomy alley.

“We’re looking for Kozume Kenma,” Takahiro began once over his puzzlement — he hadn’t expected the famous mage to be so short. “Akaashi sent us.”

“And what do you want with me?” the other asked in a tone that pushed Takahiro to put his feet in the doorframe like those door-to-door salesmen — well, he had worked as one for a few months.

“He told us you may be able to help me. Actually, my familiar, a tortoise Greenman, disappeared days ago and we’ve tried everything to locate her but nothing works, we never get a proper result.”

“It’s like there’s something interfering,” Konoha threw in, stepping closer to his friend when Takahiro’s voice threatened to break.

In front of them, Kozume frowned like there was something bothering him. Whether it was the request itself or the audacity of the two men who had come all the way just to knock on his door was still to be determined.

“A tortoise Greenman?” he repeated, his frown deepening.

Strands of hair fell loose from his ponytail, concealing his face even more. Seconds passed and Takahiro resisted the urge to shake the guy by the shoulders. His heart was beating like a furious beast trying to break free. Was Kozume going to remain silent for the next three days?!

Amber eyes locked on the witch’s and Takahiro’s heart skipped a beat.

“It’s just a familiar issue,” Kozume concluded, his voice like ice shards piercing through the witch’s chest. “I have bigger problems to solve. You should be able to sort it out by yourself. Leave food out for her or something,” he added with a shrug, his impatience and unease at the strangers’ presence growing tangible around him.

A beat. Takahiro blinked. His anger imploded under his skin.

“Are you kidding me? She’s a  _ Greenman _ , she does photosynthesis!” he seethed.

Konoha’s fingers around his wrists were the only thing keeping him from grabbing the brat in front of him.

Kozume’s brows fell into a dark scowl and his gaze grew colder as he glared at the insolent witch.

“Then you had to take better care of your familiar if you wanted to keep it. Now if you will excuse me, I have better things to do than babysitting witches that can’t even find a tortoise,” the mage cut off, not showing a single sign of empathy.

He slammed the door shut and it vanished in front of the others’ eyes, leaving only a blank wall for the witch to stare at.

Cold rage washed over Takahiro, but it was Konoha who burst out first. He rushed to the wall to inspect it, searching for a breach that obviously didn’t exist.

“Who does this jerk think he is?!” he barked, his voice rising with every word. “Get out! We’re not done talking!”

He turned back to his friend, looking for support or a plan to set the whole place on fire, but all his energy left him when he saw the resignation and defeat that painted Takahiro’s face.

The witch wasn’t even mad anymore. He no longer had the energy to.

He shoved his shaking hands into the pockets of his jackets and turned his back to the house and its snob inhabitant.

“Let’s go home. We’re wasting our time here, Bokuto was right. I wasted one day coming here instead of looking for her.”

He wiped hot tears off his face and quickened his pace. He couldn’t tell anymore whether his heart was broken or empty; all that was left in his chest was a throbbing ache. Even breathing was painful.

“Hey. Hey, Hiro!” the other called, soft at first, and then almost angrily. He rushed to his friend’s side and pulled on the back of his coat. “Don’t make this face, we’ll find her!”

His grey eyes quickly scanned the other and Konoha squeezed Takahiro’s shoulder with determination.

“We’ll find her. Even if it means I have to find a spell to go back in time or travel to another plane. Don’t let a big-headed jerk put you down like this. Besides—”

“Actually, the big-headed jerk consented to give you this,” another voice intervened smugly.

A man strode toward them, his raven black hair hiding half of his face in the shadow, golden eyes strikingly piercing and a smirk across his face like it was printed on it.

From the energy he radiated, Takahiro could tell that he was only human in appearance. He couldn’t identify what that guy was — maybe a hybrid, maybe even a youkai — but his aura for sure wasn’t a mere mage’s. He was something that Takahiro had never seen before.

The stranger stopped in front of the two men and extended his arm theatrically in front of the others. He opened his fist just enough for a small crystal similar to Bokuto’s to drop out, hanging from a golden necklace. This one glowed warmly compared to the calm watery flow of the shop owner. It casted rainbows on the grass around them like the stranger was holding out a piece of sky.

“My name’s Kuroo,” he introduced himself, slowly spinning the stone under the others’ gazes. “I overheard your conversation and I think I can help you. This happens to be the most powerful crystal we have around. It’s literally made of sunlight trapped in a moonstone,” he explained, his tone suddenly serious.

His eyes reflected the light like a cat’s in the night, and Takahiro found himself unable to decide whether he could trust him or not.

“Come on, take it, don’t leave me standing here like that. I’m not asking for anything in return. I know what it’s like to lose someone, even if just for a bit,” he continued, his eyes briefly glazing over. “I’ll talk to Kenma. We’ll find you if there’s anything new, but for now the crystal should do the job.”

When nobody made a move, Kuroo let out a long sigh and placed the stone in Takahiro’s palm. Then, he pushed the two unwelcome guests toward the limit of the property and waited for them to disappear at the corner of the street before he headed back to the house.

The weirdest thing was, when Takahiro turned around one last time, all he saw was a black cat striding toward the house.

* * *

As soon as they were back home, Takahiro gathered everything to perform a ritual, with Konoha’s assistance. This time, they’d do it by the rules, following each step dutifully.

Together, they pinned several maps to the dining table — one of Sendai, one of Miyagi, one of Japan, and even one of the world, along with a bowl of water that was supposed to represent the spiritual world, or by default any other plane of existence than the human one. Then, Konoha placed white candles at every cardinal point and lit them up one by one, while Takahiro was focusing on his bond with his familiar.

Scents of forest and sun tickled his nose in spite of the fact night was falling outdoors. He perceived the texture of Creampuff’s scales at the tip of his fingers, the soft lines of her shell where it blended with gingko leaves. He could even hear her breathing, for a second.

He grabbed the crystal and extended his arm above the table, his eyes shut, all his attention on his familiar. The stone was pulsing, he could feel it. It had established a connection.

Suddenly, the chain slipped from his fingers and Takahiro snapped his eyes open.

The crystal stood straight, pinned in a map.

Somewhere in the room, Konoha cursed. He blew the candles, and Takahiro sat down slowly to take his head between his hands.

The crystal was pointing at the exact address where they lived, there was even a drop of water extending around its tip, showing that their house existed in two realms.

They had tried everything, but it had failed again.


	6. When foxes yap and fires ignite

Issei lifted his gaze to look at the moon that illuminated the night sky. There weren't any clouds casting shadows on the earth, and not a star to be seen when the satellite was the brightest object around.

It was a cold night that smelt like winter and frost, but it was a clear one that would allow them to have a proper look around.

Issei checked his phone one more time, the tips of his fingers stinging, but no text confirmed that Hanamaki was going to come. Had he already found his familiar and forgotten to tell Issei? The shinigami would be pretty bummed, if that was it, but he’d probably grow out of it.

He was about to head back home to find some warm gloves when a silhouette broke the immobile line of trees that marked the edge of the clearing. Issei couldn’t help the twitch of his brows when he noticed someone else standing beside the witch.

Hanamaki approached without showing any hesitation, raising a hand to greet the shinigami. He immediately shoved it back into the front pocket of his hoodie with a grimace, bringing Issei’s attention to the words embroidered on it.  _ Son of a witch _ , it read, and Issei cracked a smirk.

“Why does it have to be so cold? I’m freezing!” the witch complained, kicking a dead twig away. “Damn it, I really don’t like not knowing where Creampuff is when it’s freezing like that.”

“She probably found a den or some warm place to stay. I don’t know much about familiars, but animals aren’t stupid, they don’t let themselves die so easily,” Issei tried to reassure the other.

There were moments he wished he was more of a people person. He was sure that Oikawa or Iwaizumi would have found the right words in his place, but Issei was just not them. He reached out to the other, his fingers brushing the soft cotton of Hanamaki’s sleeve, when the third person joined them. Issei quickly retracted his hand and hid it into the pocket of his coat.

The newcomer rubbed his arms, lightly bouncing in place to keep himself warm. He sent an annoyed look at the shinigami and nodded at himi.

“I’m Konoha Akinori,” he introduced himself, quickly sticking his hands under his armpits to protect them from the freezing air. “I’m a mage, and also this guy’s best friend and housemate. So, you’re that shinigami he keeps talking about?” he added with an amused light in his eyes.

Issei sent a mocking grin at Hanamaki. He looked like he was going to set the two of them aflame any second.

“I’m definitely a shinigami, I don’t know about that last part,” the other laughed. “Matsukawa Issei, nice to meet you. So, how do you want to proceed tonight?” 

“My magic’s weakening, so Aki is here to help. He’s a jack-of-all-trades, and he usually sucks at pretty much everything,” Hanamaki declared with feeling, “but he’s a night mage and much more powerful than I am.”

“If you know any place where you think I could work, I’ll try summoning Creampuff from there. Or helpers, or whatever, I just need some powerful starting line,” Konoha shrugged without bringing up his friend’s remark. 

There was something in his story that made Issei’s stomach twist and he frowned at the night mage.

“What do you mean by helpers, exactly?” he asked, not bothering to hide his distrust.

Konoha’s lips stretched into a thin smirk. “Creatures, feys, demons, ghosts, whoever answers the call. But don’t worry, I know how to handle them,” he added with a confidence that made Issei’s hair dress on his arms.

This mage played with forces that didn’t like being awakened. One small mistake and the fragile balance of their realm could tip toward chaos. Besides, that guy talking about ghosts like he was familiar with them made Issei grow weirdly uneasy. He wasn’t sure that Konoha’s ghosts were of the same nature as his, but he feared that it could mean more work for him later down the line…

Therefore, the cemetery was out of the question. He couldn’t risk an unknown mage playing a game of necromancy, especially not near the final resting place of Issei’s dearest friends. No matter who this guy was to Hanamaki or how much he trusted him, Issei didn’t know what he was capable of.

“There’s a ley line crossing the forest nearby,” he said instead, pointing in the opposite direction. “And an abandoned shrine as well. Do you think it could work with you?”

Konoha raised an eyebrow and adjusted his bag on his shoulder.

“Only one way to find out.”

* * *

Issei hadn’t lied when he had said the shrine was abandoned. To be more accurate, it was in ruins. The tiles had fallen from the roof long ago, now home to lizards and hedgehogs trying to fight the cold breath of winter. Even the walls had collapsed.

Yet, the sacred place hadn’t been vandalized, and the wind carried the echo of laughing voices only audible to the ones who knew what to look for.

“Kitsunes, huh?” Konoha said, wrinkling his nose in disgust as soon as he was close enough to the temple. “I don’t like kitsunes. They always have something up their sleeve,” he groaned, dropping his bag to the floor.

Hanamaki stopped beside him, casting a worried glance around.

“I’ve heard stories about twin foxes haunting the forest but I had never had a proof… Are you sure you’re gonna be okay? They might bother you. I could stay around and—“

Immediately, the night mage turned around with a scowl.

“You know I work best alone,” he countered dryly, and Issei couldn’t help but wonder if it was the truth when Hanamaki frowned. “I can’t focus when there are people around me. Maybe I can even get the foxes to help me tonight, but I won’t manage to bargain if you two stick around. So you go away and do whatever you want, it’s not my business,” he added with a smirk to which his friend replied with a glare.

Issei did his best not to be amused by the situation — they were here to find Hanamaki’s beloved familiar, after all — but the amount of innuendos Konoha put into each glance and word was enough for the shinigami to start warming up to him.

Besides, he mused with barely concealed delight, he had already seen Hanamaki blush twice in less than an hour thanks to that night mage, and he would have lied if he had pretended that he didn’t find it at least a bit cute.

But again, they were out to find the plant tortoise familiar, not to flirt.

A shame, really.

Laughs resonated closer into the woods, and Konoha casted another pointed look on his friend. When Hanamaki refused to move, the mage turned to the shinigami, despair and irritation written all over his face.

“I’ll be fine. Take him away before one of the kitsunes decides he’ll make a good snack, I beg you.”

The plants around them moved as if something was approaching and Issei’s heart started beating faster. He may be a shinigami, an agent of death, there were things that he would prefer never to bump into, and fox spirits were at the top of the list. They were cunning creatures that couldn’t be trusted, most of them were shapeshifters even, but somehow he believed Konoha when he assured that he would be fine. The mage seemed resourceful, and who could best trick a trickster than another trickster?

Issei didn’t wait another second to take his decision.

“We’ll be back by dawn,” he assured.

He tugged on Hanamaki’s sleeve and dragged him away before the first tail of a fox poked out from behind the temple.

* * *

They ran more than they walked, trees blurring around them into shades of browns and greys. They passed groves after groves of birch trees, their white bark reminiscent of an army of ghosts waiting for them to tire out. It was as if the forest had no end.

“Don’t look back!” the witch warned.

Dread swelled in Issei’s chest — he was certain it hadn’t taken so much time to reach the temple. Hanamaki was running in front of him, his fingers now hooked into Issei’s sleeve — he had no idea how or when it had happened. He could vaguely remember his fingers slipping from the other’s wrist when a laugh had echoed right behind them and Hanamaki immediately catching him before he was lost behind.

He heard someone sigh in his ear — “ _ Yer no fun _ ,” the voice whined, as if resigned — and eventually the familiar clearing appeared in his line of sight. Only then did Issei allow himself to breathe again. For one second, he had thought—

“They almost trapped us, didn’t they?” Hanamaki asked, staring worriedly at the line of trees. He was panting, his hands on his thighs in a vain attempt at catching his breath. “I’m pretty sure the clearing wasn’t there two seconds ago.”

Issei nodded. A frown creased his forehead.

“One of them followed us nearly all the way,” he confirmed, tugging on Hanamaki’s hoodie to take him farther away from the menacing trees. “For fuck’s sake, I had never met a kitsune before in my life and I’ve been working around here for years!”

The witch gulped audibly at his side, going limp out of sudden, and Issei stepped closer to offer the other some support. Hanamaki bumped against his chest, jumping at the contact, and Issei barely caught himself before he placed his hands on Hanamaki’s shoulders to steady him. Instead, they hovered in the air awkwardly around him and Hanamaki whispered a quick apology as he straightened up and rolled his shoulders nervously.

“They probably didn’t like us trespassing on the sacred ground,” he said slowly, his voice so low that Issei frowned at the sound. “I think this was only a warning. I just hope Akinori’s okay…”

“From what I saw, he’s a cunning guy,” Issei replied, his loud and confident voice contrasting with Hanamaki’s doubtful one. “He’ll be no match for them.”

The witch turned to him, searching something in Issei’s eyes, and when he sighed he was already looking steadier.

“I guess this part of the forest is out of bounds for tonight, so… I’ll follow you.”

“I’ll try not to step into another trap,” Issei joked, and the crooked grin that spread on his lips seemed to help Hanamaki relax a bit more.

The moon shone down on them, bathing them in a bluish light that only highlighted the fact that winter was around the corner.

Hanamaki’s hands were resolutely hidden in the pocket of his clothes, and Issei silently cursed himself for not taking a warmer coat, or gloves for what it was worth. He wrapped his fingers in his scarf, the traitorous cold seeping through the fabric and biting his skin, and ended up blowing on his hands as they walked around, praying for his fingers not to fall off. He wasn’t even sure where he was taking Hanamaki, but he refused to stop moving.

“You don’t have gloves?”

Issei startled, only then realizing how deep in thoughts he had been.

“Left them home like an idiot. I’ll be fine, though.”

Hanamaki let out an irritated sigh that took the shinigami by surprise.

“I’m sick of people telling me they’ll be fine. Give me your hands,” he ordered, presenting his palm to the other.

Lifting an eyebrow, Issei obeyed, his curiosity getting the better of him. Without adding a word, Hanamaki bent down to pick up a dry twig that he placed between Issei’s hands. Then, he took a small pouch out of his bag and dropped an orange powder over the twig. Almost immediately, the wood started warming up on the shinigami’s palms. It pulsed like a heartbeat, warm as a small animal sleeping on his skin.

Hanamaki scooped Issei’s hands between his and brought them closer to his face, as if to place a tender kiss there — Issei’s heart skipped a beat.

The witch blew on the powder and a liquid fire set between Issei’s hands. It looked like resin the color of amber and shone like flames, casting its own light, so different from the moon’s cold tones.

The liquid fire spread around the twig, enveloping it until it disappeared under the glowing surface, and soon the amber matter melted into Issei’s hand as if his skin was absorbing it. It left the shinigami’s skin glowing for a few more seconds, his hands enveloped in a comforting warmth.

Hanamaki lifted his chin to look at him, blinking as if he was surprised to find Issei gazing back, and for a brief moment their eyes locked and Issei grew aware of nothing and everything at once. He forgot the wind that blew around them, forgot the way the trees were already spreading rumors about them and the way they seemed to bend toward them, as if to brush their backs. What he was conscious of, however, was his blood pulsing through his veins right under his skin, where Hanamaki’s hands were still gently wrapped around his. What he was aware of was the way his breath hitched in his throat, and the way Hanamaki’s eyes seemed to draw him closer.

Another breeze blew through the scarce foliage of the trees and Hanamaki quickly pulled his hands back, stuffing them into his front pocket. He flicked an annoyed glance at the trees, and Issei wondered if he could understand their language the way he could communicate with spirits. He was going to ask when Hanamaki cut him off.

“This should keep you warm for a few hours. If you’re cold again, you tell me and I’ll cast another spell. This one’s just a local one,” he explained, as if talking would hide the blush that had bloomed on his cheeks.

Issei nodded slowly. He really felt like he was under a spell, but he wasn’t sure he wanted it to come to an end. Yet, the small demonstration of magic brought something back to his mind, and he couldn’t help glancing at the witch as they resumed their night walk.

“Earlier you said your magic is weakening,” Issei pointed out when the silence around them was beginning to get heavier, loaded with too many thoughts.

“Ah, yeah, but no worries, it’s not related to Creampuff going missing or anything else. That’s the natural process, actually. My magic gets pretty bad in winter, being related to nature and all. It peaks in spring, when life blooms again.”

Issei looked at his palm, then back at the other.

“This didn’t seem that weak.”

Hanamaki shrugged, and Issei could swear that his blush made a comeback. He repressed a grin at the sight.

“I can still manage some stuff if I focus. I guess the adrenaline helped.”

This time, Issei didn’t hide his smirk. “Yeah, the adrenaline.”

Hanamaki looked at him with narrowed eyes, as if challenging him to call a lie, and Issei couldn’t help the laugh that escaped his lips.

“Wow, Mattsun, you’re being so noisy tonig—Oh! You brought a friend?” Oikawa exclaimed, already beaming, and Issei’s laugh died immediately.

His steps had taken them to the cemetery without him being aware of it, and of course he could expect the two remnants to embarrass him.

He quickly flicked a look at Hanamaki, and the other stared back at him with concern.

“Is everything alright?”

“Aren’t you gonna introduce us?” Iwaizumi teased from the grave where he was sitting.

Issei blew a sigh, he could already feel a headache coming.

“Remember when I told you I could communicate with remna— with dead people?” the shinigami said, turning to the witch in order to avoid seeing the looks his friends were sending them. “I have two… friends,” he said in a sigh, “living here. Oikawa, Iwaizumi, this is Hanamaki. Well, sorry, you can’t see them,” he apologized quickly, eyeing the other two, already waiting for them to pester him.

“Hi… I guess,” Hanamaki faltered, not really knowing where to look at, so he settled for Issei, questions in his eyes.

From this moment on, everything went downhill for the poor shinigami.


	7. Where to find is to lose

“Yeah, he’s the witch from that day,” Matsukawa confirmed, probably in response to a question one of his ghost friends had asked.

Takahiro licked his lips, an irritated frown he wasn’t aware of plastered on his face. Now that was going to get annoying real quick, but at least the shinigami was doing his best to let Takahiro follow the conversation that was going on at the frontier between the two realms.

Or at least, he did for most of the time, because after a moment, his replies began to be more hesitant, and the more time passed, the shorter they got.

“Yeah… Actually… Well, that’s not…” the shinigami faltered, his brows furrowing comically.

Takahiro stared at him, studying the small changes in his expression, in his posture, the way his fingers clenched when he stammered over another reply. He kept his eyes on Matsukawa because he couldn’t take them off— because he had nothing else to focus on. Yeah. Only that.

“Can you stop doing that?” the shinigami barked, turning to the witch who opened wide eyes at the sudden outburst. “I mean  _ you _ , Oikawa. It’s getting annoying,” he continued, his jaw clenching, probably at something the ghost said.

Takahiro followed the other’s gaze, trying to pinpoint where the ghost was standing, and something poked his cheek out of nowhere.

“Hey, I felt that!”

Takahiro jumped back, looking around as if he would miraculously be able to see something.

Getting only one half — one third, considering there were two ghosts — of the conversation was starting to put him on edge, and he was pretty sure that the spirits were making fun of him, by this point.

He wouldn’t be able to stand it, next time —  _ next time _ , a mocking voice in the back of his mind repeated. Takahiro made a mental note to ask Konoha to help him find a way to communicate with ghosts. He was certain that his friend would be able to make something. After all, this belonged to the darkest domains of magic.

Leaning his back against the nearest wall to get a fake sense of security, Takahiro casted an accusing look on Matsukawa. His annoyance melted away as soon his eyes fell on the shinigami.

Far from his usual— wait, when had Takahiro started thinking about Matsukawa like he had known him for years? Anyway. Far from his usual laid-back smile, the shinigami was tense, his shoulders pulled behind as if he was on the leave. More than that, what struck Takahiro the most and made all his thoughts vanish was the upset crease of his brows and the dark blush that took most of Matsukawa’s face, up to the tip of his ears.

The witch watched, fascinated, as the flustered shinigami told the spirits off.

“We’re out,” the shinigami snapped just a second later, catching Takahiro by the shoulder.

His grip was gentle in spite of the tone of his voice, and he led the witch away from the cemetery without ever looking back.

He only stopped when they were safe at the edge of the clearing. The way he averted Takahiro’s gaze was almost comical to the latter.

“It’s nice having friends, huh?” Takahiro teased, nudging the other’s shoulder as they sat on a patch of dead leaves.

“You tell me, I don’t have friends anymore, these ones are revoked,” Matsukawa grumbled pettily.

The witch grinned, side-eyeing the shinigami as he feigned looking up at the moon.

“Hmhm. If there’s a free spot, do you mind if I steal it?”

Matsukawa remained quiet and the silence stretched between them until Takahiro’s growing worry pushed him to turn to the other. Beside him, the shinigami’s lips were crooked into an amused smile. He had been watching him the whole time.

“So, you wanna be friends with a guy related to death?”

Takahiro knew he was teasing, he could see it in the lazy smile that had found his way back to the other’s lips, in the way his dark eyes sparkled mischievously and in the way his chin rested upon his palm, as if Matsukawa was in perfect control, absolutely relaxed. It would have been easy to play along, but somehow Takahiro found himself wanting to be serious.

“You being a shinigami doesn’t mean you’re not someone I want to be around,” he declared, briefly locking eyes with the other.

He winced at his own use of negations, wondering whether his sentence made sense at all. Beside him, Matsukawa exhaled lightly, his smirk melting into something softer, and he looked up as the first pale rays of pink painted stripes in the sky.

“It’s time to go back to Konoha,” he called, standing up and groaning when his sore muscles refused to cooperate. “Better not to leave him alone with those foxes for too long.”

Neither of them noticed the flowers that had sprouted where the witch had been sitting, patches of small clusters of petals, some blue, some pink, and all the shades in-between. Similarly, right beside the old tree where the shinigami had rested his back, mushrooms had emerged from the soil. If they had paid attention, they would even have seen that these were delicate ones rather than the deadly ones Matsukawa would have expected.

Takahiro led the way to the shrine, the only sound that disturbed his silence the one of his heart beating in his ribcage. He didn’t stop when he eventually asked the question that had been floating on the back of his mind.

“It’s Sunday… If you don’t have plans, you could come over to our place. It’s warmer than out here and I could give you some of that warming powder from earlier.”

A soft laugh came from somewhere behind him, and Takahiro refused to turn around to look at the shinigami’s expression. He wasn’t that deep.  _ He wasn’t. _

“I have gloves at home, you know,” Matsukawa pointed out with a fondness that made Takahiro’s stomach do a backflip.

The witch shrugged, trying hard to swallow back his disappointment. “Your loss.”

“I never said I wasn’t going,” the other replied.

Takahiro kept on walking, but he didn’t hide the smile that bloomed on his lips.

He ignored the look that Konoha gave him when they walked back to their residence, three instead of two.

It turned out that if the kitsune twins hadn’t been very cooperative in regard to finding Takahiro’s lost familiar, Konoha had somehow befriended the two spirits. They had bonded over pranks pulled on both humans and supernatural beings, and he had promised to visit them again another day.

“But that only concerns me,” the mage added with a rare grave expression as he aligned three vaguely clean mugs on the dining table. “Actually, they were fine with me being there, but they told me they only spared you two because you—“ he pointed at Matsukawa “—took care of a dead fox the other day and offered her a proper grave. Otherwise, they would have trapped you both in this forest forever. At best.”

“Good thing we didn’t get separated, then,” Takahiro cringed, glancing at the shinigami sitting beside him.

He fitted quite nicely with the rest of their house.

At the other side of the table, Konoha nearly dropped a spoon and jerked a look at his friend. He swallowed back a reply, the corners of his lips twitching upwards, and Takahiro sent him a challenging look. He didn’t know what his best friend had on his mind, but he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to find out — at least, not when they had a guest.

The atmosphere changed suddenly when a shriek resonated in the house, and the two magicians exchanged an alarmed look.

“Watch out!” Takahiro shouted at the same time as Konoha called for his familiar to try and get her attention.

Banshee landed in the middle of the table, her pearly black eyes set on the unknown shinigami in front of her.

“Aki, take her back before she attacks,” Takahiro hissed between his teeth, not daring to move.

The bird took a few steps toward the stranger, all her attention on him, and the two men tensed up. There was no way they could anticipate what she was about to do, Banshee was too much of a free spirit — and a rather hostile one, at that.

“Don’t move,” the night mage advised.

Matsukawa didn’t listen.

The other two watched in horror as he extended a finger and petted the barn owl under the beak like he had raised her himself. Banshee closed her eyes and let out a contented purr, and Konoha dropped onto his chair, his mouth wide open in astonishment.

“How did you do that?” he asked when the air finally came back into his lungs.

“She would rip my arm off if I tried touching her!” Takahiro agreed, staring at the shinigami in offended disbelief.

Banshee had never shown any sign of tolerance toward anyone, and Konoha had always been the only one she genuinely showed affection to. For her to take a liking to a total stranger required a more powerful spell than anything Konoha — or Kozume himself — could ever achieve.

In front of them, Matsukawa grinned like he had just been told the funniest joke ever.

“Owls used to be seen as omens of death,” he explained. “I guess she recognizes her kin.”

At that instant, Takahiro didn’t know what prevailed inside of him: jealousy, or that warm feeling that was starting to become familiar whenever the shinigami was around.

* * *

“Do you wanna check the forest again tonight?” Matsukawa asked as he put on his coat under Takahiro’s progressively darkening gaze.

His little bubble of respite had popped and he was faced with two facts: Matsukawa was leaving, and Creampuff was still out there, lost and alone.

His stomach churned with guilt. He shouldn’t have cared so much about Matsukawa. His priority was his familiar, and he hated that he was starting to forget about it. It had never been about spending time with the shinigami. Creampuff was the one he needed to rescue.

Honestly, Takahiro was starting to feel very awful about the whole situation, and he was almost relieved that Matsukawa had to go.

“I think it’s pointless. She’s probably not there. She’s probably not in this realm at all,” Takahiro opposed, a bitterness to his voice that made him clench his jaw. “That would explain a lot.”

The shinigami stared at him, not offering any comforting words, and for some reason Takahiro was grateful for it.

“People will keep on looking out for her,” he simply stated instead, and this was a truth that the witch couldn’t deny. “The kitsunes, my remnant friends, witches and mages and other shinigamis if I can get them to help. You’ve got quite a broad network now. From many realms and in-betweens.”

Takahiro let out a weary sigh and nodded slowly. He ran a hand over his face, feeling like he had aged thirty years in the time of a few weeks. He almost dreaded looking in a mirror, he was expecting his hair to be grey by now — which would be likely, considering the magic flowing in his veins.

“I just hope we’ll find her before it’s too late,” he said in a blank voice.

Matsukawa didn’t reply. They stood there for a long moment, near the front door, in absolute silence, staring at each other like they both were expecting something to happen.

Exactly when the shinigami was about to say something, a rattling noise came from Konoha’s room as if the mage had hit a shelf and everything was tumbling from it and Takahiro frowned in the direction of the sound.

“ _ Holy shit _ , Hiro! Hiro, I think you should come here!” the other shouted — he  _ shouted _ — with such panic in his voice that worry clenched the witch’s chest.

He flicked an alarmed look at the shinigami who put his hand on the door handle.

“Sorry, I—“ Takahiro started in a rush, but Matsukawa cut him off.

“I’ll find my way, don’t worry. Let me know if you hear about anything.”

“Takahiro!” Konoha called again, and the witch twitched.

Konoha never used his full name.

He took a step toward his friend’s room door and stopped to send one last look of apology at Matsukawa over his shoulder, but he was already gone.

The world seemed to shatter and Takahiro took a deep breath in to control the stress that was rising in him. Then, he rushed to the night mage and opened the door wide.

“There better be a dead body!” he groaned as he stepped in, immediately praying for his dark humor not to jinx it.

Just as he had imagined, the content of a full shelf was scattered on the floor, books fallen open — Takahiro was pretty sure he heard moans coming out from some of them — among broken glass and smoking potions that should under no circumstance be put in contact. It was a mess, but Konoha didn’t seem to be hurt, so everything was relatively fine—

He swore internally when he spotted Konoha by Pen’s nest, his hands shaking and his face as pale as if he had just seen a ghost.

Takahiro’s brain shut down and he placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder with infinite precaution.

“Aki?” he called softly, squeezing the other so that he caught his attention.

Konoha was still staring straight in front of him, but his voice was surprisingly loud when he replied.

“In the nest.”

He turned to Takahiro, a frown on his face that read ‘what now?’ that the witch couldn’t quite explain.

“Look in the nest,” Konoha repeated.

Takahiro obeyed. He moved his friend aside and tugged on the hem of his hoodie, expecting to be met with a heartbreaking sight, but Pen looked up at him, well alive, his bright orange eyes shining with content.

Takahiro frowned slightly, sending a confused glance at his friend, but Konoha’s gaze was still on the owl. That was when the witch noticed the odd position that the familiar had adopted.

Pen was crouching low in his nest with his wings spread open, his feathers fluffed up like a hen on her eggs, and Takahiro’s eyebrows knitted further together. He scooped the little owl in his hands and lifted him carefully. Pendragon twisted his neck to look beneath him and Takahiro followed his gaze.

In the middle of a vaguely nest-shaped pile of twigs and moss, her colors contrasting with the dark blue of the hoodie fabric, Creampuff crooked up her neck to look at her human. She blinked, and a purple flower — a sakurasou, Takahiro noted in the back of his mind — bloomed between the two leaves of her shell.

“At least now we know that we don’t suck that much at magic,” the witch said in a distant voice.

He took the flower from his familiar and placed it behind his ear.

* * *

“I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling very stupid,” Konoha started, bringing freshly picked apples from the orchard and sitting down at the table in front of his friend. “I mean, yeah, Pen was spending a lot of time in his nest but I thought he was just taking naps. He’s already old,” he continued, looking at the owl perched on Takahiro’s shoulder.

At the mention of his name, the familiar shook himself and took a few steps down the witch’s arm to get closer to Creampuff on the table.

The little tortoise was perfectly fine, and judging by her weight, Takahiro had the impression that Pen had been feeding her all this time. He still cut a slice of apple as a treat for her and absentmindedly brushed her leaves as she bit into it eagerly.

“He’s always been fond of her, it’s not that surprising, when you think about it,” Konoha said again, startling Takahiro.

Spacing out was starting to become a habit. “What?”

The mage tilted his head to one side, narrowing his eyes to study the other. Whatever crossed his mind at that instant, he didn’t tell.

“Pen,” he repeated instead. “He’s always been very protective of Cream. I never thought about checking his nest, but it makes sense, somehow.”

Takahiro’s brows furrowed slightly. Konoha was right, thus there was something off about that whole situation.

“But don’t you think it’s weird? We knew that. Everything we tried kept telling us that she was home, and we never thought about checking Pen’s nest?”

He clicked his tongue. Definitely, something didn’t add up. Even Takahiro had never been as worried as he should have been for his familiar. In other circumstances, he would barely have been able to sleep at all, and yet, during the whole time that Creampuff had been off the radar, he had carried on with his life, just occasionally looking for her instead of making it his top priority. Sure, the idea had bothered him, but never to the point of questioning the reason behind it farther than the fact he was an awful friend to his familiar — which, considering how he had successfully raised a fully grown and pretty powerful Greenman from a seed, wasn’t true either.

“What do you mean?” Konoha inquired, his curiosity now piqued as he followed the other’s train of thought.

“I don’t know, I’m not sure,” Takahiro sighed, petting Creampuff under the chin. “She’s my familiar, I should have been able to tell she was in the next room… It’s like we were under some spell, but Greenmen aren’t supposed to be able to do that, are they?”

Konoha fell silent, his eyes on the little creature that walked around on their table. Takahiro had a point, but it didn’t make sense. Greenmen were plant-sprouting familiars, they didn’t cast spells on people, especially not their carers.

Takahiro let out another sigh. At least, he had found Creampuff, and she was alright. It was all that mattered.

His gaze drifted back to the green tortoise and Matsukawa’s face flashed before Takahiro’s eyes, startling him.

Ah, yeah, the shinigami. What was he supposed to do, now?

Takahiro flicked a quick look at Konoha over the table and his friend raised a curious eyebrow at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out [Tenti's art for this chapter!](https://twitter.com/Tenticorn/status/1345489169947115520) (+ bonus Makki that might ring a bell later...)


	8. Where to lose is to find

Everything was fine. The sun was shining bright, displaying a blessed warmth after the last few days of intense cold. Takahiro now had Creampuff back and she followed him everywhere he went, hidden in a pocket of his bag specially designed for her. Pen tagged along, most often perched on Takahiro’s shoulder or sleeping against his neck or on top of his head.

No, really, everything was fine.

Everything but that big fat crush that Takahiro had apparently developed on Matsukawa and didn’t know what to do about, much to Konoha’s entertainment.

“You still haven’t told him that you found Creampuff?” the mage asked half a week after his discovery.

The knowing smirk that spread across Konoha’s face was unbearable, and Takahiro was glad his powers were in poor shape, because else he wouldn’t have hesitated to do something about it.

“You’re not helping,” he groaned, gritting his teeth when the other snickered.

Takahiro hadn’t contacted the shinigami again during all that time, too busy he was overthinking the whole situation.

“I’ve offered to, actually, but you keep telling me off,” the mage teased again.

A deep shade of red spread on Takahiro’s face and Konoha laughed out loud, not even bothering to pretend he was a good friend.

Konoha’s idea of helping wasn’t actually helpful at all. His plan was simple: invite Matsukawa over, pour the content of a full jar of his love potion — or whatever else it was — in his cup of tea, and enjoy the result.

No, thanks, Takahiro’s sense of ethics was a tad bit higher than that. No, really, it was. Most of the time.

“You know that’s stupid, though?” Konoha asked more seriously, just to be sure.

Of course Takahiro knew, but think about it this way: finding Creampuff was the only reason they had been spending time together. He couldn’t just call Matsukawa and go “Hey, you know what? We found my familiar sleeping in my hoodie. Do you still wanna hang out later?”

Well, alright. If he put it that way, he could totally do it.

Still, something kept him from just asking the shinigami out on a date, and he couldn’t tell what it was. Maybe he didn’t want to risk it being just a hook-up. Maybe he wanted it to be something more concrete. He really did enjoy Matsukawa’s company, and using Creampuff as an excuse to spend time with him wasn’t such an immoral thing, in the witch’s opinion.

Maybe he just didn’t want to ruin whatever they already had by taking a step forward and going too fast, either.

That’s what he told his best friend, and to his biggest surprise, Konoha didn’t laugh at him this time. Instead, he lifted an eyebrow and stared at Takahiro for a long moment, considering him like it was the first time he was really seeing him.

“You sure you don’t want to use this?” he asked once more, wiggling a vial of fuchsia-colored potion.

Takahiro rolled his eyes. “Ask me one more time and I’ll pour it into your morning coffee before you visit the foxes.”

Konoha flinched, scrunching his nose, and put the vial back on the shelf in a spot where he knew Takahiro would stare at it. The night mage was also well versed in temptations.

“Anyway, since you’re gonna be hanging out with your guy and go on romantic dates at the cemetery and all,” he started again, his grin wide and playful in spite of the look his friend was sending him, “we should pass by Bokuto’s shop. I need to buy a few things to make that ghost stone you asked me for.”

* * *

Akaashi’s face lit up as soon as he spotted Creampuff’s face poking out of Takahiro’s backpack and Bokuto let out a relieved exclamation. Without any warning, he rushed to the witch and took the Greenman in his hands, cooing like she was his favorite newborn niece. It wasn’t far from the truth.

“Don’t you ever go missing again!” the man lectured the tortoise, stroking her shell affectionately.

Akaashi watched them, his expression so fond that Takahiro grinned at the sight. A movement on the witch’s head caught his attention and Pen left Takahiro’s beanie to take a spot on Akaashi’s shoulder. He ruffled the mage’s hair and Akaashi let out a soft laugh.

“Hello, Pen. You’re doing great,” he whispered to the owl who clicked his beak in approbation.

Akaashi had always had a thing with Pen. There were times when Takahiro wondered whether the owl was related to the mage in some way.

Something caught a ray of light when Akaashi lifted his hand to pet the bird under the chin and Takahiro lifted his eyebrows in a surprised expression. There was a ring on Akaashi’s finger that hadn’t been there before. It was a pretty simple one at first look, dark grey and matte, save for a thick, transparent line at the center of it that glowed like a stream under the light. A quick glance at Bokuto confirmed Takahiro’s suspicions and he grinned at the shop owners.

“So, are we invited to the wedding?”

Akaashi’s hand froze midair and he turned to the witch, his face flushed. His eyes searched Bokuto’s, but the latter didn’t show such hesitation.

“Actually we don’t know yet when or where we’ll have the ceremony,” the silver-haired one said casually.

He smiled and his eyes crinkled. He was beaming and it was so contagious that Takahiro found himself grinning as well. He had known Akaashi and Bokuto for years. If anyone deserved to have a happy ending, it was them.

Nonetheless, Konoha clicked his tongue at the news, a scowl on his face that Takahiro raised an eyebrow at. His friend leant over the counter to get a closer look at the ring Akaashi was wearing, suspicious, and the poor mage took a step back, his shoulders tense.

“Dumbasses,” was all Konoha said, glaring at Akaashi who gave him an offended look.

It was only then that Takahiro noticed why the transparent part of the ring looked so familiar. He had already seen that stone a week ago, in the form of a pendant. It was the water crystal that Bokuto and Akaashi had considered selling him when he had been out of new solutions to locate Creampuff.

The witch’s eyes widened when he looked at the two newly engaged shop owners. He had always thought that Konoha was his best and only friend, but these two had nearly sacrificed their future wedding rings just to help Takahiro.

He exchanged a look with Konoha, then looked back at Akaashi.

“You better tell us when the wedding is, there’s no way we’ll miss it.”

“If you forget, we’ll crash the party,” the night mage added with a threatening smirk that made Bokuto’s expression turn into a worried pout.

He placed Creampuff on the counter and Pen immediately jumped from Akaashi to be at her side.

The younger mage let out a rare chuckle and his whole body relaxed at once. “We will. Don’t worry.”

Of course, Konoha couldn’t help breaking the soft moment.

“Just in case, make it a plus one for Hiro. He might need it,” he teased, and for a split second Takahiro considered all the options he had to dispose of Konoha after he had killed him.

Well, Matsukawa would be pretty useful in such a moment. That would make a pretty good excuse to see him again.

Unsurprisingly, chaos ensued. Takahiro was stuck in the eye of the storm, watching everything happen at once.

Bokuto gasped loudly. He took the witch by the shoulders and shouted incoherent things into his ears. Takahiro cringed. Konoha burst out laughing, making the shop even more noisy. Akaashi’s eyebrows flew into his hairline — for some reason, Takahiro felt betrayed.

Come on, he wasn’t such a desperate case!

“Actually, that reminds me of something…” Akaashi trailed off once a relative calm had settled again. He waited until Bokuto was done acting like a proud dad to speak again. “Kenma called this morning, he said he remembered something about Creampuff.”

“Wait, you mean about her specifically?” Takahiro frowned, taking Bokuto’s hands off his shoulders as he turned to the other man.

“Yes.”

Another thing that didn’t make sense.

“I bought the seed from you,” the witch pointed out, his frown deepening to the point he was scared he would be stuck like this. “How can he know her?”

It was Bokuto who answered, stroking the tortoise’s head lovingly. It was one of those rare moments when he could be intense without being loud; one of those rare moments when Bokuto’s deep knowledge of magic showed under his easy-going attitude. It was puzzling, whenever it happened.

“You bought the seed from us, but it came from Kenma’s garden, originally. I think Kuroo and he have been trying to make a new breed of familiar for some years.”

“It’s still under progress,” Akaashi confirmed, his face serious. “They were planning on breeding familiars so that they shared a stronger bond with their witch or mage—“

“Kuroo is actually Kenma’s familiar, you know?” Bokuto cut in, unaware of the way his fiancé frowned behind him. “He’s a shape-shifting cat. A werecat. Or something…” He frowned, visibly confused himself. “Anyway, your familiar comes from them. It turns out that the new breed developed an unexpected ability to connect people,” Bokuto finished explaining, his golden eyes shining with an amused light when he met Takahiro’s again.

He waited for the witch to add something but the other remained silent.

The ability to connect people, huh? Could it be that Creampuff had disappeared so that he could meet Matsukawa? No, that was a silly idea. It sounded like it was straight out of a fairy tale or some cheesy Christmas movie.

But coincidences weren’t part of the magic world, and Takahiro was well aware of that.

The shinigami and the witch had kept bumping into each other, again and again. Konoha and he hadn’t been able to find Creampuff until Matsukawa had gone home with Takahiro and him. They hadn’t been able to find her, even though everything had kept telling them where she had been hiding all this time.

Konoha had mentioned that something had been interfering with their magic, and Takahiro had had the impression that there had been a spell casted on them.

His eyes drifted to the little Greenman on the counter. She locked eyes with him, and another flower, another sakurasou grew out of her back.

“ _ Eh, I guess I have to believe in fate. I’m what comes at the end of the line, _ ” Matsukawa’s voice echoed into his mind in that borderline flirtatious tone he had used on that day.

“Why does she keep sprouting these?” Konoha asked. “Is she sick or something?”

Takahiro stared at his familiar, his jaw clenched tight and heat spreading on his cheeks. He was a witch, he knew plants. He knew flowers. He knew how to use them, how to prepare them in order to draw the right power out of them. He also knew their meaning.

Sakurasou symbolized desire and long-lasting love, the last time he had checked. He was glad that Konoha had no knowledge of plants.

* * *

Takahiro’s phone buzzed later that day while he was browsing on the internet with so many tabs open on his computer that he couldn’t even see the logos anymore. He was, as always, looking for a job, and the web was the only placed that regrouped both the normal ads and the magical ones. Yes, that means that if you know where to look, you can find jobs such as potion maker, familiar breeder, curse caster, or unicorn-sitter online — even though that last one might be a scam. You don’t even need to venture on the dark web for that — unless you’re into that, like Konoha, of course.

Anyway, Takahiro’s phone buzzed later that day, and the witch started, closing his laptop in a rush like he had just been found doing something illegal or highly embarrassing. That was only because magic had to be kept a secret, not because he couldn’t risk someone looking at his internet history, obviously.

< Found anything new? > the message read, and Takahiro didn’t even need to look at the name to know who it was from. There was only one person who didn’t know about Creampuff, and a flash of guilt slashed across his chest.

It was still time to tell him.

The tortoise buried her muzzle in Takahiro’s arm until he lifted it. Then, satisfied, she settled down into the pocket of his jacket.

But what if the shinigami decided to cut ties with him?

Takahiro let out a groan. He could lie, or he could elude, but it would be weird, wouldn’t it?

The screen flashed on again with another text from Matsukawa.

**Matsukawa Issei:**

< Fancy a pizza before we go look for her? >

**Me:**

< Only if you promise there won’t be pineapple on it.

That shit is disgusting. >

**Matsukawa Issei:**

< Okay, XXL with extra pineapple, I’m ordering.

You still got my address? >

Takahiro didn’t, but he knew for a fact that he would be able to find the place in the blink of an eye, even without a crystal. He was pretty sure that Creampuff would be able to lead him to the shinigami.

This was how their routine started. It would last two full months.

They would meet up and go for walks at night. Sometimes, they would have dinner first, or they would go home together after they were done. It started with them going out twice a week at first, but by the end of the first month, they would see each other every two days, if not every day.

Every meeting made Takahiro’s guilt grow in the pit of his stomach, like an imposter syndrome.

Every meeting made Takahiro’s heart swell in his chest, like a dragon egg about to hatch. 

It looked more and more like dates, with gazes exchanged and laughs rising and hands brushing, and he loved every second of it.


	9. Dead men do tell tales

The first snow of the season fell right after a new moon, and Takahiro was almost feeling sick from the lack of energy swirling in the air. No moon, no plants, no life. Everything was sleepy, and his powers were almost reduced to nothing. He envied Konoha on these days, because his friend’s magic wasn’t bound to seasons.

He was drained, and yet he still agreed on meeting Matsukawa. He didn’t know when he had started following the shinigami around during his job, but he had, and even if that meant there was death lurking in every shadow, Takahiro didn’t mind.

If he had expected to at least feel dizzy because of the very nature of Matsukawa’s mission, he had been met with something completely opposite. The shinigami kept saying that he was related to death — and he was, in a way — but the energy that enveloped him whenever he helped a soul cross had nothing to do with death. It was peaceful and nostalgic, and it was closer to the essence of Takahiro’s magic than he would ever have guessed. It was like Matsukawa breathed life into death. Even though Takahiro couldn’t follow what was happening, he was left staring, unable to look away. It was oddly fascinating, watching the shinigami work.

On the night of the first snow, Takahiro had hope that he would finally be able to fully apprehend what was going on. They patrolled together in the dark, Matsukawa casually telling jokes and Takahiro trying to follow the conversation in spite of the ice that he was certain was forming in his veins.

Their steps took them to the cemetery and Takahiro took his usual spot on a bench. He jumped to his feet as soon as his butt touched the metal — it was freezing — and found shelter against the thick trunk of a cherry tree.

A branch brushed his shoulder, as if to show him empathy, and the naked tree shivered with the witch.

“Don’t worry, you’ll make it to next spring,” he whispered to the old tree, placing his hand flat against the bark.

It pulsed under his palm, warming him up just a little.

In front of him, Matsukawa checked his watch and Takahiro mechanically touched his fingers to the stone hanging around his neck under his clothes. He pressed it against his skin and waited.

Nothing happened for a while and the shinigami shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Takahiro noticed for the very first time that Matsukawa’s aura was darker than the dark itself; it was made of another texture, like he was existing in several realms at once. He was a black hole absorbing all light, drawing him in, but Takahiro wasn’t scared. He was fascinated.

The shinigami flicked him a glance and his eyebrows lifted into an unimpressed expression. He wasn’t looking at Takahiro, actually.

The air was different near the witch, but he refused to move. He refused to give himself away, not just yet. And so he waited again.

“Oh, you brought your boyfriend again!” a voice said, and a man walked past Takahiro to join the shinigami’s side.

It took the witch the biggest effort not to react.

The man who had spoken was probably around their age, wrapped in a long coat that wouldn’t have kept him very warm, had it been a real one. He looked very smart — not intelligent smart, more like well-dressed smart, Takahiro thought, because obviously this was the Oikawa guy who kept pestering him.

His silhouette glowed blue, his body both looking tangible and transparent, bending the light in weird patterns. He was both there and not there. Schrödinger’s ghost.

“Where’s yours?” Matsukawa asked Oikawa, eluding the other’s taunt — the now familiar warmth boiled in the pit of Takahiro’s stomach but he bit back the grin he could feel tugging at his lips and did his best to ignore the feeling.

The remnant shrugged, looking away.

“Iwa-chan’s mad at me again. All I said was that there would probably be a day we’d disappear. I mean, we’re the oldest remnants around, I’ve never met anyone who had died before us.”

He spoke lightly, as if stating a fact that had nothing to do with him, but Takahiro couldn’t help but feel like it was all an act. Oikawa moved his hand like this was a light topic, a smile on his lips that didn’t reach his eyes. He let out a sigh that sounded like a trembling laugh, and the witch realised he was scared.

In front of him, Matsukawa shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat, his shoulders tensing unnaturally, but the ghost didn’t seem to notice.

“If you keep talking about disappearing, don’t come crying at me because you start fading away,” Iwaizumi snapped out of the blue, his voice rising from an alley opposite to them.

He walked toward the others, hands curled into tight fists at his sides and jaw clenched, rage distorting his features. He looked like he was about to either murder someone or burst into tears.

Oikawa’s eyes slid on him swiftly, refusing to linger.

“But it’s bound to happen, Iwa-chan,” he said lightly.

His voice echoed in the cemetery like a bell sounding the knell in the dead of winter. In front of him, Matsukawa remained silent, his glazed eyes locked on a random grave. The other ghost shook and he looked away, a slump in his shoulders like he was holding up not only the sky but the whole universe.

“I don’t want you to fade away.”

Iwaizumi’s voice was barely a whisper, only a sentence carried away by the wind. A wish, or a prayer.

Takahiro tried to keep his eyes on Matsukawa, but the shinigami wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck, bringing it higher up his face, concealing it to the witch’s gaze.

Oikawa’s artificial smile fell and he looked down at the ground, defeated. He could fight Iwaizumi’s anger, he could brush it off, but his honesty disarmed Oikawa like nothing else could. They were both scared, that was what they were, and there was nothing they could do about it.

Nonetheless, after a few seconds Oikawa clapped his hands together and strode to the bench Takahiro had deserted. He climbed on its back, his smile back on his lips, and looked at his friends.

“Anyway!” he began, cheerful and loud — it was awfully forced, but the others didn’t have the heart to call him out for it. “Mattsun, tell us about what’s going on out of this place! Has Makki found his familiar yet? Are you two dating? You’d tell us if you were, right? Wait, no, I’m sure you wouldn’t,” he continued with a pout, and Matsukawa rolled his eyes, gladly slipping back into their familiar dynamic. “And what about these kitsune guys on the other side of the forest?”

The shinigami let out a groan, his face darkening, and he started narrating the story of the latest prank the twin spirits had pulled on him.

Takahiro raised an eyebrow, listening carefully. An amused smile curved his lips and he didn’t notice the ghost leaving his line of sight. It was only when something gleamed blue beside him that Iwaizumi caught his attention.

The remnant had left the other two to their story to rest his back against the same tree as the witch, his arms crossed over his chest. He was listening to Matsukawa, cracking a smile here and there, his full attention caught by the recounting — or at least, Takahiro thought so.

“You can see us, can’t you?” the ghost said out of the blue, so casually that the words took some time to reach Takahiro’s mind.

Iwaizumi didn’t even glance at him, but his mocking smile stretched wider when the witch jumped.

Immediately, the conversation between Matsukawa and Oikawa stopped and they jerked a surprised look at their two friends.

Takahiro let out a laugh, exposed, and smirked at the clever one. “I thought I’d have a bit more time before someone found out.”

“You weren’t being very discreet, they’re just not paying attention,” Iwaizumi grinned back. “Nice to meet you, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, yeah. But honestly, I didn’t think ghosts would look that good,” the witch added, raising an eyebrow. “I was expecting old guys with wrinkles and white hair and all.”

“Iwa-chan does have wrinkles due to that perpetual scowl of his,” Oikawa immediately intervened, feigning not to see his boyfriend’s glare. “But I agree that I’m still exceptionally good looking for someone who’s been dead for so long. Don’t stare too much, though, Mattsun would get jealous,” he teased, eyeing the shinigami.

Unfortunately for him, all that Matsukawa did was to raise an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Jealous of you?” he asked in such a flat voice that Oikawa gasped. “How come you can see them?” he continued, something else shining in his eyes as soon as he looked at the witch. “Did you suddenly awaken some shinigami DNA?”

“I got some help,” Takahiro shrugged, and he dived into the collar or his hoodie to fish his necklace. Immediately, the ghosts disappeared from his sight, as if they had never been there. “As long as I keep this pressed against my skin, I can see and hear them.”

Hanging from a silver rope, a triangular stone swung between his fingers. It was thick, made of jade — “ _ It’ll make your eyes stand out _ ,” Konoha had joked as he had picked the mineral — and pierced with a hole the size of a nail.

“ _ I’ll call you Coraline, now _ ,” the mage had added as he had handed the final piece to his friend. Takahiro had nearly been tempted to find a yellow raincoat after that. The only thing that had stopped him was that he looked terrible in yellow.

Matsukawa approached him carefully, his eyes shining with a curious interest that Takahiro had never seen yet. He brushed the pendant with the tip of a finger; the witch let it fall into his hand. He cursed Konoha for making the chain of the necklace so short. When Matsukawa bent over and brought it closer to his face, his hair nearly brushed Takahiro’s nose. It smelled of fire smoke and dark coffee and rain, and the witch pressed his nails into the tree’s bark beside him for support.

At least, Takahiro was glad that he wasn’t touching the stone anymore, because he was certain that Oikawa was making fun of him again. There was no way he could let the way Takahiro had stopped breathing pass without teasing him. Hell, even the witch could see his own clothes pulse in rhythm with his racing heart. It was almost ridiculous.

The corners of Matsukawa’s lips curved upwards — damn you, Oikawa — and the shinigami raised his gaze to meet Takahiro’s.

No breath, no heartbeat, Takahiro was probably going to be the next soul that Matsukawa would have to help cross to the other side. The black hole was pulling him closer into its orbit and he didn’t think he had the strength or the will to get out of it.

Matsukawa’s eyes studied him closely. They weren’t playful anymore, shadows played in them, and his eyebrows furrowed so slightly that Takahiro would probably not have noticed if he hadn’t been so close. The shinigami’s gaze followed the lines of Takahiro’s face, most likely not missing the blush that had appeared on his cheeks; traced his cheekbones, his lips… Matsukawa looked like he was under a spell, and this was one Takahiro wished he had casted — but maybe he had, somehow.

The shinigami inhaled sharply, anchoring himself back into the present — thanks to another ghostly intervention again? — and the lazy playfulness lit up his face once more, almost teasing, erasing all traces of whatever had been there the second before.

“Nice craftsmanship,” he declared.

His gaze lingered on Takahiro’s for an instant more. He pulled lightly on the chain, just enough for the witch to feel it and be pulled closer, and took a step back out of Takahiro’s space.

The cold air enveloped him again, rushing into his lungs, and the witch shivered. He wasn’t totally sure it was because of the weather.

* * *

Takahiro was still freezing when they left the cemetery and the teasing remnants behind them. Without consulting each other, they picked the long way back, the one that crossed the forest and followed the edge of the clearing that was now so familiar. They walked side by side, so close that their arms kept brushing, but neither made a move to put more distance between them.

“You don’t have your fire powder with you?” Matsukawa inquired when Takahiro predicted his fingers were going to become necrotic and fall.

The witch rubbed his hands together so fast that he could have sparked a fire in no time. He regretted that Pen had stayed home with Creampuff and Konoha, because the fire-breathing owl would have proven himself more than useful.

Takahiro blew on his gloves one last time before he answered — it did nothing to warm himself up.

“My magic’s too low these days. Even such a simple spell won’t work,” he said through gritted teeth.

The other hummed a vague reply, flicking a glance at Takahiro, and suddenly halted. Takahiro took a few more steps before he stopped as well and turned around, a frown on his face.

“Do you want me to freeze to dea—“

“Come here,” the shinigami cut him off, opening his coat and his arms, his expression unreadable.

His voice was soft and low, appealing. It bore no trace of tease, for once, and Takahiro closed his mouth slowly to take in the sight. After a few more seconds spent in the merciless cold, he blew a resigned sigh from his nose; it hung in the air between them like the world itself was holding its breath.

Takahiro looked at the horizon as he closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around the shinigami. He kept his hands curled into fists pressed against the other’s back as if it could make things less awkward, but he couldn’t deny that he had been wanting something like that to happen for a long time.

Matsukawa pulled the edges of his coat around the other and held Takahiro against him, barely touching him but close enough that his warmth radiated through the witch’s clothes and seeped into his back.

Little by little, Takahiro melted into the touch. His body relaxed and he nuzzled his face into Matsukawa’s scarf. He exhaled a satisfied sigh when the other eventually leant in and rested his face against Takahiro’s hair, embracing him into a real hug, like the ones lovers shared under the falling snow in cliché Christmas movies.

Takahiro slid his hand along Matsukawa’s back to get in a more comfortable position, feeling the other’s muscles move under his palms with every breath, and the shinigami held him tighter, his thumb tracing circles on Takahiro’s back.

“This is nice,” Takahiro heard himself say out loud, matter-of-factly.

Matsukawa hummed in agreement.

“ _ Yer so cheesy _ ,” a voice mocked, carried by the wind, but they paid the kitsune no attention at all.

They remained in the same position for a long time, alone and out of sight from the rest of the world. It was Matsukawa who broke the silence first. He lifted his chin just slightly, his grip on the other loosening, and frustration washed over Takahiro when Matsukawa twitched.

“Um... Hanamaki?” the shinigami faltered, and Takahiro pulled away begrudgingly to look at him. “I thought you said your magic regressed at this time of the year?”

The witch frowned. He turned around to follow the other’s gaze, careful to keep his hands safe under Matsukawa’s coat, and his mind went blank at the sight of the landscape.

Ah. Damn. Now  _ that _ was embarrassing.

Where there had been snow covering the ground as far as the eye could see, the two men were now standing in the middle of a patch of grass. It spread in a perfect circle around them, as if winter had forgotten that exact spot of earth on its passage.

Flowers had blossomed, some of them even curling around Takahiro’s ankles, and his face flushed as he became aware of the vast carpet of forget-me-nots that covered everything. The scent of bear’s garlic rose in the air when he moved his foot; lilies of the valley and snowdrops faced each other in some kind of popularity contest. Farther, mushrooms hid in ferns near the roots of oaks that had started to bud. Even between the remaining patches of dead leaves, small trees were sprouting from the ground.

It was as if all the seeds in the soil had decided to grow at the same time, triggered by Takahiro’s emotions, and he wished he could throw his hood on and walk away to somewhere nobody would be able to tease him for his stupidly embarrassing magic.

Who needed a confession when fucking spring was summoned just because of a hug?

“Huh, it’s supposed to regress. Side effect, I guess…” Takahiro flinched.

Matsukawa remained silent, but in spite of the magical landscape around them, he didn’t take his eyes off the witch at his side.

* * *

Things kind of accelerated between them from that moment on. Well, maybe not accelerated. They just took a step further.

Matsukawa kept Takahiro’s hand in the pocket of his coat on the way back even though they walked in silence.

After that, the time of their meetings changed, too. They started hanging out at day. Takahiro visited Matsukawa several times, and on rare occasions — when Takahiro wasn’t too broke — they even went to a fancy coffee shop that happened to offer the best pastries of the town.

It was there that it happened for the first time. Matsukawa ordered a dark and bitter coffee, as per usual — Takahiro had no idea how someone could drink that — and the witch opted for cream puffs and a matcha latte, ignoring the shinigami’s mocking gaze.

It was two weeks after the sprouting flowers incident, and Takahiro hadn’t been able to take it off his mind. Matsukawa wasn’t an idiot, he could add up the information, and so Takahiro found it stupid to waste their time ignoring what had happened.

He ate half of his pastry to gather his courage and give himself time to calm down and consider his options if things turned to his disadvantage.

Then, he eyed the other’s coffee, already regretting his life choices, and pointed his cream-stained spoon at the other’s drink.

“Mind if I have a taste?” he asked, trying to sound casual and finding his voice awfully fake.

Matsukawa raised a suspicious eyebrow, staring at him. His warmth was spreading to Takahiro from how close to each other they were sitting in that sticky leather booth.

“Go ahead,” the shinigami said, sliding the plastic cup toward Takahiro.

The witch pushed it aside with the back of his hand without a second thought.

“Actually, this is more what I had in mind…”

Black suited him so well that just looking at him was enough to make Takahiro feel like a sinner — it was intoxicating, and Takahiro had no will to resist.

He hooked his fingers in the collar of Matsukawa’s shirt and pulled him closer, his move painfully slow, calculated, enough for the shinigami to stop him if he wanted to and enough for Takahiro to lose his mind somewhere along the way. A pleased light lit up in the other’s gaze; Takahiro noticed it just before he closed his eyes and captured the other’s lips in a breath.

It wasn’t a long and passionate kiss, nor was it full of romance of longing. No, it was a kiss, just a kiss, brief and tentative and casual. But more than a kiss, it was a permission and an affirmation, and it was the proof that there really was something going on between them.

Takahiro pulled away to look at Matsukawa’s expression.

The shinigami grinned, slowly, seductively, just the way he had when the witch had showed up in his flat with a radioactive pizza under his arm at two in the morning. Takahiro was too drunk on the feeling to be so composed, he could barely hear people chat in the background over the pounding of his heart.

“I haven’t even taken a sip yet,” Matsukawa pointed out, his thumb stroking the edge of the witch’s jaw.

“Better this way,” Takahiro countered with what remained of his calm, and he sat back into his original position to finish his pastry.

On the windowsill, the flowers bloomed all at once.

He would have lived the perfect life, if Creampuff hadn’t decided to show up unannounced in the middle of a date.


	10. Of life and death and things to come

Were they dating? Were they not? Takahiro didn’t care that much about labels. He was fine with what he had: a shinigami that made Takahiro’s magic seep out of him and flowers bloom, and whom he could kiss until he was left breathless, his lips numb and his heart making a run for it. He was living the perfect life, let’s be honest.

He had nearly forgotten how all of that had happened, with Creampuff playing matchmakers and going missing, only for him to meet Matsukawa on one cold night of autumn. Actually, they still had moments when they went out and took a walk in the forest, but Takahiro had forgotten they were even supposed to be looking for his familiar in the first place.

As always, they ended the night in the cemetery in the company of Oikawa and Iwaizumi. Somewhere along the way, Takahiro had taken a liking to the two ghosts, but what he loved more than anything was teasing them — Oikawa, especially. He deserved it. And his reactions were always priceless.

They were in the middle of a conversation about the best pastries in Japan when Oikawa stopped mid-sentence. He froze, his eyes widening like he had just seen a ghost — the _irony_ — and stared at the witch without being able to say a word.

Immediately, Takahiro knew that he had messed up somewhere. He followed Oikawa’s gaze to his backpack, as if in slow motion, already anticipating the sight. As expected, Creampuff was looking up at him. She sprouted another flower, one that meant “sorry”, but he knew the little tortoise meant nothing of it.

The witch’s expression fell and he looked at the three people around him, the silence heavy in the cemetery. Oikawa was completely stunned, perhaps a bit disappointed at how Takahiro had lied to them all this time. Beside him, Iwaizumi’s expression was unreadable. It was closed, disapproving, and he stared in silence at the witch.

Lastly, Takahiro glanced at Matsukawa. The shinigami was staring at the little Greenman, his eyebrows lifted up to his hairline, and the witch’s heart clenched alarmingly in his chest.

Takahiro sighed in defeat. He opened the pocket of his bag and took the tortoise in his palms, picking up the flower that he kept tucked between his fingers. _Sorry_ , indeed.

“Guys. Meet Creampuff, my familiar,” he said, not looking at anyone in particular.

Iwaizumi was the first one to break the silence, his tone so judgmental that Takahiro flinched.

“How long have you been hiding her?”

“Aki and I found her about two weeks after she went missing,” the witch admitted, shame washing over him. Why had he even thought it was a good idea to lie?

It was Oikawa’s turn to stare in disbelief.

“But you’ve been coming here for two months.”

Two months of blissful lies, yeah. Damn it, he had been stupid.

Creampuff nudged his thumb and Takahiro turned to the shinigami, a pained expression twisting his face.

“Issei, listen, I can explain—“ he started.

Matsukawa burst out laughing, cutting him off, and Takahiro thought for a second that he had gone mental. He put the Greenman back into his bag, Pen protectively landing on top of it, and stared with apprehension at the shinigami.

Even the two remnants exchanged a look full of confusion.

“I can’t believe you kept her in your backpack all this time!” Matsukawa exclaimed, repressing another laugh like he had just been told the best joke of his life.

Takahiro’s expression switched to concern when he approached but Matsukawa only crouched to get at eye-level with the tortoise. He scratched her head, a grin across his face.

“Hi, Creampuff. I’ve heard a lot of things about you,” he said, and it would have made Takahiro soft if he hadn’t been so scared of the consequences of his lie.

A forget-me-not sprouted from the familiar’s back and Takahiro wished he could vanish into thin air in a snap of fingers. He didn’t know what was going to kill him first: his stupid decisions or the mortifying embarrassment. In front of him, Iwaizumi’s lips crooked into an amused smile, all shock already forgotten, and the ghost relaxed visibly.

“Good thing I didn’t put the whole shinigami congress on the case,” Matsukawa declared, standing up to send the witch a way too amused look.

Takahiro no longer knew where to start. Just saying sorry sounded dull in comparison to the time he had spent lying to his friends.

“They’d probably have had a good laugh, though,” the witch hazarded instead.

Matsukawa’s eyes were on Takahiro, not letting him get away with it. Reluctantly, Takahiro met his gaze. He cringed at the way Matsukawa’s eyes sparkled.

“Why did you keep her a secret?” Oikawa asked, a confused frown upon his face that the witch saw nothing of. “Isn’t she cold in there?”

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi called, soft, but the other didn’t listen.

“Also, I’m pretty sure tortoises can’t grow flowers out of their body like that—“

“Oikawa,” the other insisted again.

“What kind of plant is it, by the way? It looks really pretty. I think I’ve already seen some—“

“ _Tooru_ ,” Iwaizumi tried again, and this time Oikawa stopped, blinking at his boyfriend in a mix of frustration and confusion. “Let’s leave them alone for a while.”

He slipped his hand into Oikawa’s, the latter looking at their intertwined fingers, then back at Iwaizumi’s face, and they disappeared out of sight. They couldn’t go far — they were bound to the cemetery, after all — but it was the thought that counted and the semblance of privacy was welcome.

Yet, as soon as he no longer had the ghosts to back him up, Takahiro’s level of nervousness rose dramatically. He stared at Matsukawa, on edge, waiting for him to give his sentence, but the shinigami stayed quiet, his hands in his pockets and a mocking smile on his face.

“I know I should have told you before,” Takahiro gave up when the other didn’t make any move.

He leant against the nearest wall for support and focused on a spot somewhere above the shinigami’s shoulder.

He wanted to tell Matsukawa why he had kept quiet — because he didn’t want this, whatever it was, to end — but instead he settled for something else. An apology, almost.

“I was stupid.”

“Pretty much, yeah,” the other laughed, his eyes never leaving Takahiro’s face, the butterflies in the witch’s stomach metamorphosing into a swarm of bees — not being able to know what Matsukawa really had in mind was starting to drive Takahiro crazy. “But honestly, I’ve had doubts for a while.”

The witch startled, immediately scanning the other’s face for an explanation, and there Matsukawa was, gazing at him with both an indescribable fondness and a tease in his eyes like Takahiro had just told the funniest joke ever.

“You stopped bringing her up and you looked less restless,” the shinigami continued when the other remained silent. “Before that, you looked like you were freshly back from the dead.”

Takahiro eventually cracked a smile, all his accumulated tension releasing from his muscles.

“I had a glow-up.”

Matsukawa waited, the corners of his eyes still lifted in amusement. He looked like a cat playing with a mouse, but Takahiro could play this game too.

“You’re not gonna tell me why you kept it a secret, are you?”

The witch crossed his arms over his chest defensively, but he knew it was pointless — his cheeks were stinging, and this time it wasn’t because of the cold.

“You know, you could have just asked me out,” the shinigami insisted, coming closer.

He rested his back against the wall right beside Takahiro and nudged him with his elbow.

“I never liked taking the easy path,” the witch shrugged.

He glanced at Matsukawa; he was still gazing at him like there was nothing else worth looking at in the world.

“It’s not too late,” the shinigami said again, his smirk widening, playful and pushing.

Takahiro raised an eyebrow.

“Do I really need to say it?” he asked, pointing at the flowers sprouting at his feet right under their eyes.

Grass became stems that became buds and leaves and petals in a carpet around them, unaware and unwilling to acknowledge the snow that fluttered in the air. A dandelion pierced through the wall between them, and Matsukawa let out another soft laugh as he picked it.

“I guess not,” he eventually admitted.

He pinned the flower to Takahiro’s beanie and pulled him into a kiss.

* * *

Dating a shinigami wasn’t as gloomy as most people would think. It was actually pretty fun, most of the time, because it meant they could prank not only living people, but also their ghost friends.

Takahiro spent most of his free night time with the three of them, but it was only after months that Matsukawa told him the full story about their friends’ situation, the whole “buried aside but not together” issue. From that day on, Takahiro started looking differently at the remnants. He noticed the way they orbited around each other, the way they casually touched or reached out every time they were close enough to.

They weren’t fading, Takahiro was certain of that, but he was pretty sure that throughout all his time spent in the company of the shinigami he had met souls that were more tangible. Iwaizumi and Oikawa were a blue glow when some other souls shone bright and proud.

“Even if they refused to cross and chose to stick around, they should be able to rest in peace,” Matsukawa once confided, a melancholic frown creasing his forehead. “But I don’t think Oikawa and Iwaizumi are at peace, not completely. And I don’t think they’ll ever be.”

Takahiro had stared at him, waiting for his boyfriend to expand, and so had the shinigami. He had taken the witch to an abandoned corner of the cemetery and had pointed at two graves that stood one meter away from each other. They shone like someone was still making sure to keep them in good shape, contrasting with the weeds growing around and the bushes of thorns that threatened to smother everything.

Names were engraved in the tombstones, along with a very quick epitaph:

_Oikawa Tooru_ |  | _Iwaizumi Hajime_  
---|---|---  
_Forever in_ |  | _Loved by all._  
_our hearts._ |  |   
  
“I was only allowed to refresh the tombstones,” Matsukawa had said in a low voice, his face grave and sad. “They refuse that we let them rest together in death, even after so long. They keep saying we have no proof that they were together,” he had added with a bitter laugh.

His eyes had gleamed cold. It had haunted Takahiro since then.

Until he had come up with a plan.

* * *

The cemetery looked different in daylight, Takahiro mused as he rubbed his arms in a desperate attempt at infusing some warmth into his body. Creampuff stirred in the inside pocket of his coat and he placed a protective hand on his heart to keep the Greenman from winter’s bite. On his shoulder, Pen chewed at the witch’s ear affectionately.

Around them, rows of tombstones succeeded to each other, grey and cold, lifeless.

Takahiro wished he had had more sleep the past night, but he had been so nervous that he had struggled to fall asleep and nightmares had followed him into the supposedly peaceful realm of unconsciousness. He breathed in, breathed out, waited in the cold until Matsukawa showed up, his face equally anxious and grave.

They walked to the abandoned parcel of the cemetery, the silence between them heavy and tense, and stared at the two tombstones without adding a word. Takahiro dropped to his knees on the consecrated ground. He placed his palms flat on the dirt, ignoring the thistles that scorched his skin, and closed his eyes to focus.

“I think I can do it,” he declared between gritted teeth, more to persuade himself than to inform his boyfriend.

Matsukawa didn’t try to stop him. He didn’t want to, just like Takahiro wouldn’t take failure for a result.

The witch exhaled deeply, his nails digging into the soil. He focused on everything he could sense under the frozen dirt. Mushrooms, dormant seeds, roots and insects. There was a whole world under the surface that barely anybody ever paid attention to.

Matsukawa put one knee on the ground beside him and placed his hand on Takahiro’s neck, pressing the ice cold jade stone against the witch’s skin. His thumb stroked the other’s neck soothingly, both an encouragement and a thank you.

“Can you find them?” the shinigami asked, concise.

The witch nodded with equally few energy, his eyelids shut tight and his brows knitted together.

Hawthorn swirled around the tombstones in front of them, bushy and naked, and the air was moist, announcing a soon to come rain.

Takahiro breathed out and wiped his hands on his jeans before he took his familiar out of his pocket. Creampuff didn’t even glance at him. She walked to a spot at the exact junction between the two graves, as if already knowing what her witch was expecting of her, and waited for his word.

“I’ll let you eat all the fruits and dandelions you want when we’re back,” Takahiro whispered, brushing her shell lovingly.

Then, he turned to Matsukawa and dove into his eyes for just one second.

“Ready?” the witch asked.

“I’ll be right here,” the shinigami answered.

Takahiro stuck his hands into the dirt again and closed his eyes.

* * *

Issei had no idea what it was like, being a witch. He wasn’t even sure he could understand the essence of magic, but it didn’t make it any less spectacular. Hanamaki’s nails pressed into the frozen ground and grass sprouted between his fingers. Issei couldn’t tell whether he summoned life or created it from scratch.

Old branches fell into ashes, replaced by new sprouts that grew under the shinigami’s gaze. Meanwhile, flowers developed from the tortoise’s shell, growing in fast motion, withering and seeding until they fell to the ground around the familiar and began a new cycle on the cemetery’s dirt.

Issei wiped a bead of sweat off Hanamaki’s neck. The witch was shivering, his short breath taking shape in the air in front of him, but Issei didn’t dare speak to him. He knew that breaking his focus would end with the spell failing, and this was the last thing he wanted to happen.

He may not have been a witch or a mage himself, Issei felt it happen. The ground shattered beneath his feet and animals crawled away, scared for their lives. Things were moving under the surface.

Hawthorn blossomed white behind the twin tombstones, circling them, capturing them in its tight embrace, and moss grew on the wet stones, eating half of their carvings like water eroding a cliff.

A shriek echoed, close, and Pen landed beside the tortoise to escort her back to the two men. She hid under Issei’s coat, nuzzling his knee to find more warmth, and the bird lay beside her, protecting the other familiar under his feathers.

Hanamaki let out a sigh and fell forward, exhausted. Issei caught him just in time before he hit the ground.

Around them, the patch of cemetery looked more alive than it had ever been.

* * *

“Where’s Creampuff?” Hanamaki’s sleepy voice rose from Issei’s lap, worried, and the shinigami ran a comforting hand through his hair.

There was mist sticking to the pinkish strands, and Issei combed it away.

“Under my coat.”

His gaze left the peaceful witch to wander on the horizon where the silhouettes of the trees were starting to blur together. Night was falling. Soon, diurnal animals would become quiet. Everything would be dark and silent for a few minutes. Then, ghosts would take shape, nocturnal creatures would awaken, and life would be filled with noises again.

“Pen?” Hanamaki insisted again.

He shivered, and Issei pulled him closer, wrapping a pan of his long coat around the worn out witch.

They were on the bare ground, Issei sitting crossed legged, his boyfriend’s head resting on his thigh so that he didn’t freeze to death.

“With Cream,” the shinigami answered again.

There was something about the atmosphere of the moment that kept them from raising their voices. Trees bent closer, either to listen or to protect them from the wind.

“Issei?” Hanamaki asked once more.

When the shinigami looked back at him, he had fallen asleep again.

* * *

It was only hours later that the two remnants appeared. There was a lost air to their faces, as if they couldn’t quite remember what they were doing there. They stood close to each other, holding hands like kids exploring an unknown environment, stumbling more than walking.

“What happened here?” Oikawa breathed, stopping in front of his and Iwaizumi’s graves.

Issei took the time to place the stone back around Hanamaki’s neck, against his skin, before he helped the witch to his feet and looked at the two remnants.

“Hiro wanted to do something for you,” he explained, wrapping Hanamaki’s arm around his shoulder and placing a firm hand on the other’s waist to steady him.

Even under the full moon he looked terribly pale, but there was a smile across his face, so genuine that it was almost contagious.

“Can you feel a difference?” the shinigami inquired, even though he didn’t need an answer.

He could see it by himself: the remnants’ glows were bolder, more grounded that the faint light it had used to be. He knew for a fact that if he reached out, their skins would buzz with a warmth that had never been there before.

Tears shone in Oikawa’s eyes. Beside him, Iwaizumi kept staring at the shinigami and the witch, speechless.

Oikawa walked to his own grave, almost shyly. He brushed the marbled stone with a shaky hand, Iwaizumi’s palm still pressed against his as if they were scared to be separated.

“How?” the ghost asked again.

Forming words had become difficult, all of a sudden.

Hanamaki leant more heavily against Issei, touching from shoulder to hip. He laced his fingers with the shinigami’s in a casual gesture before he answered.

“I used the roots to bring you two closer,” he said in a raspy voice, pointing at the ground with his free hand. “Nobody’s ever gonna be able to tell which bones’ whose, now,” he grinned, and a short laugh shook his whole body.

He had wanted it to be teasing, but instead it had turned out light and smug and happy.

Iwaizumi inhaled sharply. His eyes went round and he squeezed Oikawa’s hand to get his attention.

“Look at the epitaphs,” he whispered, his voice so weak it was almost inaudible.

Oikawa followed his gaze. There was a short silence before he let out a laugh. It was nervous and happy, interspersed with sobs that the ghost couldn’t control.

“You went full sappy, there,” he told Hanamaki when he could speak again, his voice breaking at the end.

Iwaizumi nudged him supportively. The looks in their eyes were worth thousands of thank-yous.

The tombstones and the graves had been brought together by the flora around them, the ground remodeled to the witch’s will in such a way that neither time nor people would ever be able to take the two men apart ever again. On the epitaphs that used to be separated, moss covered letters and words to form a new sentence:

_Oikawa Tooru_ |  | _Iwaizumi Hajime_  
---|---|---  
_Forever in_ |  | _Love_  
  
It took a long time for the four of them to recover from the emotions. Oikawa and Iwaizumi sat together on their now common resting place, fingers intertwined like they were underground, Hanamaki had made sure of it — “Nice attention,” Issei whispered into his ear.

The witch’s smile was tired, but it was fierce when he grinned back, his cheeks pinker from the cold or the mirth. Issei rested his head against his, brushing the small of Hanamaki’s back in a silent and tender thank you. What he had done for the remnants meant more to the shinigami than words could convey. He had spent years hanging out with Oikawa and Iwaizumi, unable to do anything to solve their situation, and Hanamaki was a blessing to the three of them.

“You could leave, now,” Issei eventually pointed out — he felt like he had to. “You’re at peace.” 

He tried to keep emotions off his face, but his jaw clenched against his will. As much as he was happy for the two ghosts, letting them go was one of the hardest situations he had ever had to face. Even his job at the funeral home left him less shattered.

Iwaizumi and Oikawa exchanged a look tainted with sadness and full of doubt.

“Actually, I think we’re gonna stick around a bit longer,” Oikawa declared, his lips quirking into an awkward smile that quivered. “We don’t want you to go missing us.”

The shinigami cracked a smile, this one relieved.

“Of course.”

Nonetheless, there was still a tension in the air, an unresolved issue that brought questions to their minds and wrapped their hearts in dangerous thorns. It was a “what if” hanging above their heads like a sword of Damocles.

Hanamaki ignored the sword. Instead, he wrapped his hand around the handle and wielded it with dexterity.

“You won’t go fading away,” he announced, breaking the gloomy atmosphere and startling the others.

Iwaizumi studied him carefully, searching the witch’s face for any trace of doubt or condition. He found nothing.

“Is it a prediction?” he still asked, careful not to get his hopes high.

He needed an explanation, something that would assure him that everything would be alright, that there was nothing to fear, especially not the future.

The witch grinned and Issei flicked him a curious look. He hadn’t told him anything.

“No, it’s a statement,” Hanamaki continued, already looking a bit more in shape than before. “If Aki’s theory is exact — and I’m sure it is, he’s the dark magic expert —, you were only weak because you weren’t fully at peace. Now, you shouldn’t be bound to the cemetery anymore. That’s also why you’ve never met remnants older than you, they’re harder to find because they can roam around freely.”

There was a pause during which the three others stared at Hanamaki, disbelief written all over their faces. It soon melted into realization, and Oikawa was beaming — literally, he glowed from the inside — when he looked back at his boyfriend.

“You’re telling me they could come and haunt me at my place?” Issei asked with a vaguely concerned frown — it was fake, though, the corners of his lips betrayed his smile.

Hanamaki’s grin stretched wider, almost wicked. “Yup.”

“That means we could go on a double date in town?” Oikawa asked — offered? — in a voice full of hope and excitement.

Iwaizumi grimaced beside him and Hanamaki’s smile became downright scary. He had planned it all, hadn’t he?

“Technically, yes.”

Issei stopped paying attention as soon as Oikawa started rambling about where they should go and what they should plan, but the smile never disappeared from his face.

* * *

Days passed, then months and seasons, until one full year had flown by without the shinigami taking notice. Winter was back, cold and biting, sometimes playful, most of the time merciless.

Issei wrapped his coat tighter against his chest, his scarf itchy because of the dead leaves that kept getting stuck in the wool. That was what he got from dating a witch whom plants couldn’t resist. Not that Issei would complain, it was pretty fun to see flowers bloom on their passage or leaves bend toward Hanamaki every time he passed by a pot in their apartment.

He closed the door behind him and walked down the streets of Sendai, still empty at such an early hour. Hanamaki was already waiting for him, shivering in front of a fancy coffee shop they had come to become regulars of. 

“Found anything?” Issei asked, brushing the other’s hand as he walked past him and held the door.

Hanamaki blew on his hands and hastily walked into the shop to take their usual spot.

“Nope, it’s like I’ve already tried all the jobs this town has to offer,” the other grumbled, dropping onto the leathery booth. “I might go to Bokuto’s later today. At least he pays well and he usually has something for me.”

Issei hummed absentmindedly, eyeing the seat in front of them where Oikawa and Iwaizumi would soon join them. He probably had around three minutes of peace left.

“Is Cream with you, by the way?” Hanamaki asked after a moment. “I haven’t seen her in a week. And yes, I’ve checked Pen’s nest,” he added under his boyfriend’s mocking gaze.

“I think your familiar likes me better than you,” the shinigami teased, taking the tortoise out of his pocket to put her on the table in front of them.

The witch shrugged beside him. “Fair enough, she’s the one who brought you to me, anyway.”

Issei scratched the animal’s head and Hanamaki froze suddenly, all air knocked out of him. Beside him, the shinigami smiled lazily, his eyes not on the tortoise but on the witch.

“Are you serious?” Hanamaki asked in a breath. He sounded like he was torn between shock and laughter.

Issei rested his chin onto his palm to take a better look at his partner.

“Only if you want to.”

His gaze didn’t waver when Hanamaki scooped the ring from Creampuff’s leaves right before the ghosts appeared. He put it on his finger like it had always been there, jade pressed against his skin and tiny blue flowers embedded in resin, linking together death and life and all that existed in-between and beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for following Matsukawa and Hanamaki's journey!! ♡ Feel free to leave a comment or to RT the fic on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/AngstWeaver/status/1345386905924493312?s=20) if you want to!  
> I also wanted to thank the UFBB admins for making this possible because it was so much fun and I got to make some awesome new friends through this event ♡


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